The Last Tycoon
by Reminscees
Summary: 1925: Young and bored, writer Arthur Kirkland attends one New York's most nutritious parties, held by one mysterious Alfred F. Jones. Intrigued by one another, they begin a charming yet hopeless endeavor for noble destruction, staring with fast-moving seduction, slick as a scene of one of Jones' pictures. (On AO3, changed Act I!)
1. Chapter 1

Prologue.

Though I myself have never been on screen, the life we led felt as though I were watching it in a picture house, the camera exhausted and taught as the scene carries on, showing me the bright New York city skyline as the focus shifts to a single window of millions, or fireworks bursting at a mansion, glitter falling with dancers into a pool, with applause as the scene unfolds, waiters spinning, silently, holding precious cargo in the form of sleek champagne flutes, a single figure illuminating the darkness of my life as he held me, securely, longing for more and always more, touching me and setting me alight in the heavy, hot air. Sometimes it made me cry, too, as I remember tears falling while clutching the telephone, objects being flung across the room, punches to jaws, fast cars and knowing smiles, smiling at the world as it unfolded in his hands, diving deeper and deeper in the coolness of life, endlessly sliding along the barrister of the staircase into the future, a glorious day, for tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther, all while singing the same jazz melody again and again and again, the urge for tomorrow and the unknown repeating itself with the melody, glasses and bottles falling, whiskey and champagne spilling as yet another camera was brought out, capturing us as we captured it, and another day passed, night turning to day, summer turning to autumn, ignoring time as we saluted to a dignified destruction for we beat on, endlessly, borne on waters of a greater tomorrow we knew was a beautiful, beautiful lie.


	2. Chapter 2

Act I

June.

It was a matter of chance that Arthur Kirkland found himself in New York during the summer. As he had done with many things before, he sort of fell into decision to accompany Francis Bonnefoy by muttering a hoarse 'Yes — _Yes' _in a hot breath, muted by Francis' neck and shoulder and forgotten by Arthur after his own rigid gasp, muscles shaking and nails digging into Francis' skin, hard enough to draw blood, he supposed. Later, he said that Arthur should join him and come to New York, meet pretty girls and laughing ones, gentle and wild ones. It was appealing to Arthur, and went he first set foot in the strange, new, exciting city, he understood _why_ these girls would be in New York and only New York.

It was also a matter of chance that Francis rented a mansion, or perhaps it belonged to him, Arthur never asked, in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was a large estate, with a broad driveway and a spacious garden, on the slender riotous island that extended itself east of New York. With the sunshine and great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, Arthur felt the familiar conviction that life was beginning all over again with the summer, and it was an arresting phenomenon.

The mansion was in the less fashionable area, yet, to Arthur, it seemed a most superficial description to express the bizarre and sinister contrast between Long Island and New York, which was loud and crowded and full of life, unaware of anything other than itself. The manor was a colossal affair, an imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, and, unlike many other properties, it remained untouched and was not squeezed between two other huge places. It overlooked a bay, glistening and broad, and in the stagnant of the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable millionaires glittered along the water. Straight across from Arthur's own temporary home, he noticed, there was a great mansion, too, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, with a swimming pool, too, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden, Arthur estimated as he stared out to the estate.

Arthur understood that the proximity of millionaires could be very consoling as he drove over to the other side of the bay to have dinner with one Michelle Mancham. Francis had always stated that she was one of those young girls that will reach their acute and limited excellence in drinking and dancing at twenty-five that everything afterward savours of anti-climax. Her family was enormously wealthy. A distant relative was the French administrator of Seychelles during the years of war with the United Kingdom. He declined to resist when armed enemy warships arrived.

Her life had little to do with this bravery.

She had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and drifted here relentlessly bored and young, bringing friends along on travels to Chicago and westwards to California and to Detroit, eventually settling here. On a warm windy evening, Francis had pulled Arthur into the car and driven them both over to her estate, to see two old friends whom Arthur scarcely knew at all.

Her house was even more elaborate than he expected, white and pure and overlooking the bay, slightly, too. The front of it was littered by a line of French windows, glowing with reflected gold, and they were wide open to the warm windy afternoon.

The butler walked Arthur and Francis through a high hallway and into the bright living room, and it seemed fragile through the light shining though said French windows on either end. They were open, and gleaming white against the bright sky outside, the sun seeming to grow into the room, ceaselessly. A breeze blew through the room, and the curtains framing each window flew around in the room, twisted up towards the ceiling and then rippled down to the floor.

The only stationary object in the room was an enormous couch, on which two young women were propped and buoyed through the wind of the curtains. Their white dresses rippled in the breeze.

The spell was broken as, with a loud noise, Francis shut the windows and the caught wind died a sudden, painful death in the room. Michelle laughed, as though she had said something completely witty, and reached over the top of the sofa to stretch out her fingers, trailing them over the fabric.

"Is that you, my dearest one?" She hummed, and Arthur was unaware who she was addressing. She stretched herself, slowly, and it was then as Arthur watched her movements that he noticed the second woman. Extended full length on her end of the sofa, she was motionless and still, although her chin was raised slightly, as though she were balancing a fragile object on it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Arthur, curiously, as Michelle sprang up, kissed Francis hello, and said, "Do you they miss me in Paris?"

"Oh, yes," Francis murmured in her ear, "At least a dozen people send their love."

It was often said that Francis' murmur only existed as his trademark to make people lean towards him. Arthur believed it was irrelevant, and had no charm whatsoever.

"How gorgeous," Michelle said lowly, "Francis, Arthur," She pointed to the woman, "This is Emma de Burgh—She's a famous golfer."

"I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can recall," Emma drawled, and she yawned. With a series of rapid, deft movements, she stood up into the room.

Michelle shook the other woman's shoulders, smiling brightly as she said, "This summer I'll push you two together," She looked at Arthur, bobbed hair flailing wildly as he teeth shone brightly, "I'll fling you two together in linen closets and out to sea in boats!"

Emma seemed unimpressed, and simply proudly walked ahead of her towards the bar, grabbing a glass of champagne and sipping on it, pearl necklace flying across her chest.

"I'm not listening to a word." She said with a smile to Arthur. Her lips fluttered, and she nodded at Arthur before quickly tipping her head back once more and balancing the imaginary object on her chin once more.

Francis had been hovering restlessly about the room, and he stopped, resting his hand on Arthur's shoulder, who shook his grip and gaze away and poured himself a cool drink.

"Are you staying here over summer?" Michelle asked Francis, "Say you are, we could have _such_ fun!"

"You'd be a God damned fool to go anywhere else," Emma said with surprising suddenness, an underlying urgency, "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"Don't look at me," Michelle retorted, "You said it was too hot. I'd love to go to town."

"Nonsense," Emma said, and it was silent for a moment. Arthur drowned his drink as though it were a drop at the bottom of his glass.

"Say," Emma continued, "You're living around here, aren't you?"

"Yes," Francis replied, "Just across the bay."

"I know somebody there," Emma remarked contemptuously.

"I don't know a single–"

"You must know Jones."

"Jones?" Arthur said hoarsely, it was due to the heat, he told himself later, "What Jones?"

"Why, the one who throws large parties," Emma laughed, as though Arthur had just said an incredibly stupid remark, "He's on this side of the bay. If you live on the _other_ side, you can probably see his house."

"It's enormous!" Michelle clarified.

Before anyone could reply, dinner was announcing– wedging his sweating arm imperatively under Arthur's, Francis compelled him from the room as though he were moving a chess piece across the board. Languidly, the two young women preceded them onto the warm porch, open to the sunset and overlooking the bay.

"Say, what do you do?" Emma asked Arthur, resting her elbows on the table as the butler poured each guest their drink.

"He's a writer," Michelle answered excitedly, "Isn't that marvellous? We ought to plan something, together," She looked at us radiantly, "Something _fun_."

"What do you have in mind?" Francis asked.

He was making a polite effort to entertain or to be entertained.

"Oh, I don't know," Michelle replied, "Let's go to parties– Let's go to Jones' tomorrow!"

"Alright," Emma said nonchalantly.

For a moment, the last sunshine fell, and then the glow faded, deserting the dinner table.

"It's lovely to see you at my table, Arthur," Michelle said leaned forward, her voice glowing and singing, "Isn't it lovely?" She turned to Emma for confirmation.

Sighing, Arthur leaned back, tracing the rim of his glass with his forefinger. Francis smiled elegantly and observed him.

Emma's body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and after a while, she stood.

"Ten o'clock," She remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling as her head knocked back and glancing upwards, "Time for good girls to go to bed."

"Emma's got to play in the tournament tomorrow," Michelle explained "It's frightfully boring, I think. It's over at Westchester."

"You can come watch, if you like." Emma drawled, looking at Arthur over her shoulder, who leaned back and observed her with an interest reserved for trying to understand the incomprehensible.

"Good night," She said softly, "Wake me up at eight, why don't you."

"If you'll get up I will," Michelle laughed. Emma laughed dryly, too, from inside the house as she disappeared.

"She's a nice girl," said Francis after a moment, "Is she from New York?"

"No," Michelle answered, "They let her run around the country this way."

"Who does?" Arthur inquired coldly.

"Her family," Michelle said solemnly, "All she's got is one aunt about a thousand years old."

After a long moment of silence, Francis yawned, and minutes later, Michelle escorted Arthur and Francis to the door, standing in the cheerful square of light. As Francis started the motor, she peremptorily called 'Come back soon!'

:::

A few days later, Arthur observed that the apartment was on the top floor, and that it contained a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of red furniture entirely too large for it.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, a second generation Prussian immigrant, had arrived straight from Detroit, with a new car and a new mistress, one Elizabeta Hedervary. It was Elizabeta who had invited Michelle to inspect their new joint apartment in a dirty corner of New York City, unknown to Elizabeta's husband, and it was Michelle who had rung up Francis and Arthur. Emma had a tournament. Antonio came, too– He was a friend of Gilbert, and no one truly knew where he got his money from, Francis told Arthur.

Gilbert had brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. After the first drink, Arthur and Miss Hedervary called each other by their first names. She was a full, worldly girl, with a solid sticky bob of brownish red hair. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on once more at a rakish angle, yet the efforts of nature seemed to prevail, allowing for a dim shadow of her hair to appear beneath the pencil. When she moved, there was an incessant clicking noise, as he bracelets and jewellery jingled constantly.

"Oh, open another window." Michelle moaned.

"There aren't anymore." Elizabeta complied, fanning herself lazily, getting up to stand next to the bar.

"Then telephone for an axe." She replied tragically, arms flailing as she let herself fall on the sofa.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Emma sighed, "And anyway, it's too hot for that." Emma sighed.

"It's too hot for anything." Elizabeta sighed as Gilbert poured her a drink.

"Oh, forget about the heat," Gilbert commanded sharply, "You'll make it worse by crabbing about it." He set the bottle down on the bar again, clinking in the silence.

"I don't give a hoot about what you think," Elizabeta sneered, drowning her drink and raising her chin at Gilbert, "You can't tell me what to do."

Gilbert laughed darkly, and the room lapsed into silence once more.

"You're always so angry, Gilbert," Antonio said quickly, "Why is that?"

"'Dunno," He answered, not looking at him and instead staring out of the window, "I'm German. Maybe that's why. I started the war, didn't I? _Zoo-wee-mama!_ You all held a gun to my head."

It was silent for a moment.

"I like you dress," Michelle remarked.

"What, this crazy old thing?" Elizabeta laughed, "I just slip it on sometimes when I don't care what I look like."

Gilbert yawned audibly. "Why don't you have something to drink?" he asked Arthur and Francis.

"Yes, let's," Francis drawled, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's own as he grasped the bottle. His eyes flickered upwards, staring intensely at Francis for a long moment through his eyelashes.

The spell was broken as Elizabeta asked Michelle, "Do you live down on Long Island, too?"

"Yes, just about."

"I was down there at a party about a month ago, at a man names Jones'. You know him?" Gilbert stroked Elizabeta's jaw and cheek from behind her as she spoke.

Michelle raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her whiskey.

"They say he's a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm, or something." Elizabeta continued, "How terribly frightening! Oh, do you like Europe?" She exclaimed surprisingly.

"I was in Monte Carlo for a while," Michelle said.

Elizabeta pulled her chair closer to Michelle's, warm breath pouring over her as she asked, "Really? Did you stay long?"

"No, just Monte Carlo and back. It was just Emma and me, see," Michelle snorted, "We had an awful time getting back, I'll tell you. We got gypped out of our money in the first two days..."

Arthur observed the two, yet Antonio interrupted Arthur's thoughts by laughing loudly together with Gilbert as Elizabeta snorted over her martini.

"Neither of them can stand the person they're married to," Francis whispered in Arthur's ear, slowly and carefully, his hands stroking Arthur's shoulder, surely and confidently, in a way, possessively, as Arthur took a long drink from his whisky, the liquid burning slightly as it slid down his throat, hot and heavy.

Antonio created sounds of loud jazz from a scratchy gramophone. Michelle shrieked, and jumped up onto the small table in front of the sofa, basking in the screams and cheers as she danced on it, skirt and dress moving swiftly as she turned, her body twisting and legs kicking. Elizabeta joined her, grabbing Gilbert and dancing with him.

Elizabeta lifted her bright red skirt to Michelle, who gasped in mock surprise and shrieked, shaking her hips as Elizabeta laughed, eventually stripped down to her underclothes, black and expensive, a gift from Gilbert, Arthur thought, as he felt a hand stroke his cheek, Francis facing him, body inching closer and closer. Arthur leaned towards Francis' touch numbly and darkly.

"This is a dream," Arthur mumbled in drunken nonsense over the music, "This is all a dream."

In a haze, time moved on, further and further, steadily, interrupted only by the loud shouts of Gilbert and Elizabeta coming from the bedroom, connected to the left of the living room through a dark wooden door.

"You ain't got no right to speak her name!" Gilbert shouted after Elizabeta, slamming the door behind her, ignoring the spread figure of Emma on the couch, eyed the spectacle as Arthur toyed himself away from Francis' gaze and touch.

"That bitch! Anneliese, Anneliese, _Anneliese_!" Elizabeta taunted, marching proudly ahead of Gilbert, "I'll say her name whenever I want—"

She was cut off by the palm of Gilbert's hand slamming against her cheek.

The sound echoed across the room.

A willingness of the heart had bound them all in the room as Elizabeta was flung to the floor from the sheer force, the sounds of her sobs and complaints, Michelle's pleas and words of comforts, Antonio and Francis trying to constrain Gilbert, who shouted loudly.

Enchanted and repelled by the exhausting variety of life in this one city, this one district, in this single room, Arthur stumbled numbly on the fire escape outside on the window, observing the chaos from a distant, a casual watcher in the street, watching the spectacle of the red room high over the city, its yellow window contributing a fair share of secrets.

He was within—

And without.

:::

The night sky was dark, too dark, there were no stars in sight, Arthur found, as he tipped his head back, hair pushed back from the wind of the force of the bright blue automobile, lean and sleek, as Francis drove, faster and deeper, into the night, tires aching as he curved around the corner, tilting slightly as Michelle shrieked in the back seat, waving widely and laughing as Francis quickly slapped her behind with a sharp grin, her white, thin shawl flailing in the wind. Arthur curiously observed the motion, leaning his hand out to grab it in drunken nuisance, hopelessly, as Francis gracefully slid the car into parked position behind two other automobiles next to a fountain.

The mansion of Mr. Jones was gigantic, built in a faux historic style that was oh-so popular in America. If he had been sober, Arthur would have scoffed and fashioned a comment about it. He had a fairly large garden, too, which was currently filled with party-goers, flappers, young boys and rich men, all seeping into the estate, lights and loud music erupting from inside, the familiar garden of Eden invitingly spread into the palm of Arthur's hand.

Michelle jumped out first, adjusting her bobbed hair with a bright smile as Francis followed her, snaking an arm around her waist, mustering Arthur keenly as he observed Antonio and Gilbert, clad in a cheap, starched suit, face in the neck of his favourite mistress the charmingly refreshing Miss Hedervary, face still slightly bruised from the slap in the apartment room, her makeup messy, ran, with their heels clicking in tune, to join the large, far too large, crowd that was formed around the house, equally large and equipped to, as Arthur thought, a reasonable party with pretty girls and alcohol.

What was curious, Arthur observed, was the type of people present, not only the mere masses of laughing and shrieking individuals. Every weekend simply _everyone_ ended up at Jones', Michelle had said, and it was true—From every walk of life, from every corner of New York city, this kaleidoscopic carnival spilled into the hands of one Alfred F. Jones.

Pushed up the stairs and past the dark fountains, Arthur found himself staring into the obsess of white, bright lights, jazz music and chandeliers, women gracefully positioning themselves on elevated platforms and dancing, programming themselves to the world and to the groups that observed them, fur and feathers falling as they moved, men fondling women, glass breaking as more and more alcohol spilled into the anxious mouths of various types, a caravansary of billionaire playboy publishers and their blonde nurses next to heiresses comparing inheritances on Jones' beach, crossing their legs on by one, gossip columnists alongside gangsters and governors exchanging phone numbers, film stars in lavish red, Broadway directors, high school defectors in striped suits, all laughing and dancing around the cool, blue pool and orchestra, cigarette smoke flailing around as Arthur reached for another martini, drinking it as he looked over the glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Antonio and Gilbert laughing widely as they ran to catch up with Francis and Michelle, clasping her bottom jokingly as she swatted their hands away with a mock gasp. Moans from across the room, laced with laughs and shouts, glasses clinking in coordination with the heels of shoes.

Amongst the crowd, Emma, clad in a sleek, black dress, long and sparkling, had spotted Arthur, and, ignoring the contradictory fast-paced swing music, she walked coolly and smoothly to Arthur, standing up immensely, his focus on her and only her, her elegant body and intimidating eyes.

"I thought I might see you here." She said slowly, looking at him intently as she traced a finger across his shoulder, coyly.

"I could say the same thing," He replied, smiling down at her as he drowned his martini, "It's a rather large party."

"Isn't it?"

"I heard you lost the tournament," Arthur said, smiling sharply.

Emma frowned.

"Why, aren't you rude?" She said, "I've never heard such a thing."

"It's true though, isn't it?" Arthur remarked.

"Yes," Emma replied after a beat, crossing her arms and scowling at her feet as she created a long, black line with her shoe on Jones' glistening floor.

"This is a rather large party," Arthur said, "How does Jones afford this?"

"What?" Emma said rudely as a trumpet sounded and more jazz played.

"I said, who is this Jones?" Arthur heard himself ask as he reached for a glass of champagne from a moving waiter.

"Well, I always thought—"

"He was a German spy during the war." A man interrupted, walking past Arthur.

"Teddy Barn, Arthur Kirkland." Emma nodded with her head to the stranger, who quickly disappeared and became a member of the everlasting crowd once more.

"I heard he killed a man once." A blonde woman gasped, crowded by men and admirers.

"It's true— Kills for fun, free of charge." A young man to her right said.

"He's certainly richer than God." The boy to her left complied.

"You don't really believe he killed a man, do you?" Arthur whispered to Emma, her pale back sharp yet elegant in her deeply-cut dress.

"Well, let's go find him and you can ask him yourself." She replied, a sly smile, "You won't believe—"

"Mr. Jones doesn't exist." A man spoke up from behind Emma, dark hair slicked back and his hands in the pockets of his striped suit. She turned and stared up at him.

"Phooey— I've met him." Emma raised her chin in his direction.

"Which one? The spy? The prince?" He laughed nasally, "I can't find anyone that knows anything real about this Mr. Jones."

"Well, I don't care. He gives large parties, and I like large parties." She said quickly, "They're loud and intimate. At small parties, there simply _isn't_ any privacy."

"If that's true, then what's all this for?" Arthur voiced, tone a little annoyed at the man's rather rude and sudden interruption.

"That, my dear fellow, is the question." He replied, and Arthur stared at him for a long moment as Emma shrugged and bristled beside Arthur, as though she was expecting something from him.

"May I have this dance?" The man asked Emma, spreading a hand out to her as she gave Arthur a quick glance, and then shrugged, placing her hand in his palm and walking briskly away.

"Pompous," He muttered to himself, slicking back his self-consciously hair into place, "Too pompous for her own good."

Alone, distinct from the uneasy feeling that someone was watching him, and a little embarrassed, he decided to get roaring drunk.

Flappers were dancing around him as more and more people joined the debacle, cheering as the orchestra finished yet another tune. He recognised Michelle in the middle of the room, kicking widely as the details on her dress, a Bonnefoy original, at that, moved with her, showing the world her skill in, as Francis put it, being a _'Try anything kind of girl, what a marvel!'_. Arthur grinned at himself as he pushed past the crowd, up a set of stairs to observe further, alone, music pounding as glitter fell from the sky, as he frowned at his empty glass. Turning to try and find another, he felt a presence in front of him as he bumped into a person.

Drunken and confused, Arthur slowly brought his eyes to meet the young man who had acted as his obstacle.

The man was positively beaming at the scowling, positively wrecked and drunken Arthur. He was taller than him, and wore glasses, Arthur observed. He was broader and stronger, navy blue suit wrinkled slightly, hair messy in a way that was positively charming, though distinctly American.

"Your face is familiar," He asked quickly, almost nervously, "Where you in the third division during the war?"

"Unlikely," Arthur replied after a pause, "I'm English."

"I was in the seventh." The man shrugged.

"You having a good time?" He asked after a moment of silence, raising his eyebrows as he tilted his head to the crowd.

Arthur glanced away to look down at the crowd again, his back turned against the stranger, although the man quickly, almost too quickly, moved to stand next to him.

"Incredible." Arthur voiced hoarsely, "Though I still haven't met the notorious Mr. Jones." Arthur sighed, balancing as he rested his weight on the palms of his hands which were perched on the railing.

"Oh, yeah?"

"No one has," Arthur said and grinned, "They say he's the third cousin to the Kaiser and second to the devil."

The man laughed. It sounded harmonious, like birds. He moved to join Arthur, elbows on the railing as he faced him, "I'm afraid I haven't been a very good host, then. You see," He locked eyes with Arthur as the music heightened, "_I'm_ Jones— Alfred F. Jones."

The world stopped moving at that very moment.

Arthur stopped breathing.

He heard the crowd in front of him explode into shouts, a chorus of ecstasy, as extravagant blue and green fireworks exploded with the last notes of a dramatic symphony, but Arthur could only look at the man, Alfred, Alfred F. Jones and only Alfred F. Jones— A golden boy who was young, too young, and unmistakably gorgeous, hopeful, refreshing. Breathless warmth soared from him, a silent promise that there was no one else in the world he so wanted to see.

Smiling and raising his eyebrows, he toasted the glass in his palm at Arthur, who mustered him with a frown, turning his head back to the fireworks as they exploded loudly.

"Say, what's your name?" Jones asked.

"Arthur," Arthur managed weakly, "Arthur Kirkland."

"That's a nice name. Come to lunch some day, Arthur— Why don't you?" Jones suggested.

Arthur drowned his drink and grinned.

:::

Arthur awoke in Francis' bed, sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear with a great portfolio in his hands.

He had no recollection of the previous night.

_Jone_s—

His smile was one of the rare smiles you only come across one or two times in life, Arthur found, it understood you and believed in you, just like you'd like to believe in yourself, and he couldn't stop thinking about it, the sheer brightness, even after Elizabeta swung her arm around his frozen figure, gaping at the mysterious and damnably young and charming Alfred F. Jones, ranting to him about some boy or girl or another issue as she dragged him away.

The rest of the night was spent in a ludicrous dream of alcohol, and it was a haze as Arthur stirred awake with the burning rays of sun in his eyes.

Francis laughed shyly.

"Feeling a little worn?" Francis said, stirring awake beside him, fingers toying at Arthur's chest.

"I— Last night—"

"You met Alfred F. Jones." Francis nodded, "You repeated it, multiple times."

"Oh," Arthur said intelligently, "I did. Yes, I remember— Alfred F. Jones." He confessed, slowly and carefully, enjoying too much the way the mysterious mark of a name felt on his tongue, "_The_ Alfred F. Jones."

Francis closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows.

"I expected him to be old and fat. Young men don't just drift coolly out of nowhere and build a palace out of nowhere." Arthur hummed.

"Do you think— Is he handsome?" Francis voiced, the question saying more than pure words.

Arthur swallowed thickly.

"Yes, very much so." He said, quietly and hoarsely, and he gave Francis a long look.

"I see," Francis nodded.

"He asked me to lunch." Arthur said weakly.

"Will you go?" Francis asked, running a hand along Arthur's spine.

"Perhaps," Arthur swatted the hand away, "Give me a cigarette."

Francis reached behind him, rolling on the pillows, and took a cigarette from a silver box. Placing it between his lips, Arthur waited for Francis to light it.

"You shouldn't go," Francis said, "He is a dangerous man."

"Dangerous? What, because he's the cousin of the Kaiser? You surely cannot believe—"

"He is a dangerous man, Arthur," Francis insisted, "You've seen the parties. Do you know what they say about him in the papers? Where does he get the money? He is young, he is American— Where does he get all of the alcohol?"

"Oh, I don't know—" Arthur laughed dryly, "I always thought prohibition was a joke to them, too. He seemed nice enough. He said he was in the war."

"Did he, now?"

"Yes," Arthur spat, "He was in the seventh division or something, whatever that means. He was enlisted— That's already more than you did."

"That seems perfectly wonderful, Arthur," Francis smiled cruelly, "But— Who is he? Do you know?"

"He's just a man named Jones." Arthur finished, unaware of the colossal lie he had told that was engraved in the air he breathed ever since.

:::

It was early morning in late June, at nine o'clock, that a gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to Francis' door, alerting Arthur of its presence with a burst of melody from its three noted horn.

Arthur staggered outside, alone— Francis was out in town that day. In the glistening sunshine, he could see the figure of a man, rather tall and broad, standing outside under the bright blue skies.

"Good morning— You're having lunch with me today and I thought we'd ride up together."

He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with a certain resourcefulness of movement that was peculiarly American. It seemed to reek of hard labour in youth and an exciting setting with formless grace in the present.

Arthur gaped.

It was Jones— His blonde hair was glistening in the sun, and he smiled, brightly, too. His crème suit clashed with the bright yellow car and his golden hair and skin, framed by round sunglasses.

"I made some calls," Jones clarified as he pushed the glasses up on his nose, "Don't worry— I didn't follow you home or do anything creepy like that."

"Right," Arthur said, the word prolonged on his tongue.

"So what do you say to lunch, then?" Jones asked, smiling brightly.

"I—" Arthur stammered.

"It's pretty, don't you think?" He interrupted with a quality of restlessness. It seemed to Arthur that Jones was never quite still— There was always a tapping foot somewhere of the impatient opening and closing of a hand. It did not bother Arthur nearly as much as it should have. Jones jumped off the car and stuck his hands in his pockets, beaming at Arthur.

"What— What if I would have had plans?" Arthur frowned.

"But you don't, do you?" Jones beamed.

"No," Arthur said reluctantly, "Still, this is rather sudden—"

"Come on," Jones said as he strolled over to grin lopsidedly into Arthur's face, with such proximity he could feel his breath, hot and heavy, on his skin as he said, "Don't be a stick in the mud—"

Arthur inhaled sharply.

"Excuse me?" He spat.

Jones laughed loudly.

"I said that you shouldn't be such a stick in the mud." He said, "What do you have holding you here?"

"To be perfectly honest," Arthur answered, "Not a damn thing."

Jones smiled.

"Listen, what's your opinion of me, anyhow?" He said after a pause.

Arthur frowned.

"Why do you care?" He asked, leaning towards him and eying his face, as though he were searching for an answer.

"I don't know," Jones replied, "I just do."

There was a long, eerie silence as Arthur, and, unknown to him Jones, too, wondered whether they had made a grievous mistake.

"Look here," Jones said quickly, "I don't want you to get a wrong idea of me from all those stories you hear."

"Do you?" Arthur drawled, smiling a little at his antics.

"Yeah," He said, "Listen, so what do you say about lunch? We'll drive into town, or go to mine. What do you say about that?"

Arthur bit the side of his thumb to avoid smiling.

"You say 'listen' a lot." He mumbled.

"Well," Jones replied, "I do that because then people don't have doubt whether they need to listen or not."

Arthur's face slowly broke into grin, facade crumbling. In a bizarrely elegant manner, he pushed past Jones and sat down between the many layers of glass of Jones' car, jumping over the door. Jones' laughed loudly and sped to join him. Starting the motor with a roar, Jones laughed once more before spinning the steering wheel and leaving the house behind in a hot cloud of dust formed by the screeching wheels.

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned out of the car, slouching his torso against the interior, elegantly tracing the movement of the wind and shadows created by the machine with his fingers and hand, watching the green and yellow leaves of the trees around the road, the bright grass and the shining sun, creating an almost holy image of Arthur as it illuminated him. It was ghostly and captivating.

Jones only drew his attention back to the road as he swerved around a corner, car shaking and bobbing side to side on the road with the exhaustion of the speed. He had left his excited sentences unfinished and scratched at the steering wheel indecisively.

"Listen," He broke out surprisingly, "I really don't want you to get a wrong idea of me."

"So you've said," Arthur complied lazily.

"See, I'm from the Midwest," Jones said quickly, "My family was dirt poor, and I could only work odd jobs. When I had enough money, I moved to California. I wanted to make films— And that's what I do today."

"Films?" Arthur asked incuriously.

Keeping his eyes trained forward, Arthur sat upright again as Alfred approached the bridge into the city, and as more cars joined the road, crossing to move into the steamy, dirty city, blue skies above and tall, grey buildings in front of him.

"Yeah, films," Jones answered, "I make films in Hollywood."

He hurried the phrase, or swallowed it or choked on it as though it had bothered him before.

Inky black shadows of the large, colossal bridge, a metal tamed shrew, towered over the cars. Arthur sat upright again, adjusting his suit jacket briefly, before tilting back his head to bask in the sheer monstrosity of the city's entrance, noting that, after crossing the bridge, it felt as though suddenly, anything was possible and everything could happen— Even Jones could happen.

"What do you do, Arthur?" Jones asked.

It was the first time he had rolled his name off of his tongue, Arthur realised.

"I write, I suppose."

"You suppose?" Jones laughed, "Either you do, or you don't— Simple as that. Well, I like writers."

Arthur laughed dryly.

"Why?" He asked.

"They know everything, and at the same time, they know nothing." Said Jones excitedly.

"You're rather rude, Jones," Arthur said, an amused tilt to his tone.

"See," Jones continued, "Writers aren't people, exactly. Or, if they're any good, they're a whole lot of _different_ people trying to be one person. They're like actors, in a way— who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors, who lean backwards trying, only to see their faces in reflecting chandeliers."

Arthur swallowed thickly, turning his words over and over in his head.

"I realise I know nothing about you at all," Arthur mumbled.

"What do you want to know?" Jones said, turning his head to look at Arthur, wind in his hair and teeth white and straight and shining in the sunlight.

"You said you were in the war," Arthur said, mustering his expression carefully as he spoke, "In the seventh division."

"That's true," He nodded, "Though, not really. I wouldn't say that I was a soldier. See, we were based in California for most of it," Jones explained, "I enlisted myself, though, in December 1917. I wanted to save the world," He laughed, "I didn't though— You did that yourselves."

"I'm afraid we did not," Arthur laughed dryly, "There is nothing heroic about war."

"Sure there is!" He smiled, "You fought— That's heroic."

Arthur stared at Jones for a long moment.

"Such remarks are rather idiotic, Jones—"

"Why don't you call me Alfred?"

"Why don't I call you Jones?" Arthur retorted with minimal interest.

"Okay," Jones drawled, "Sure."

Arthur scoffed and lit a cigarette. His lighter was faulty though. Jones dug out his own from his pocket, lifting his body and nearly elbowing Arthur as well as crashing his car while doing so. Arthur allowed him to light his cigarette for him, though. The grey metal lighter shun in the light as the flame erupted from it with a clumsy and misplaced motion of Jones' rather broad and large thumb. Arthur stared up at him, locking eyes with him shyly. There was a certain desire and intrigue between them, formed as a firm string, tensely, knotted in their chests.

"Where do you want to go, Arthur?" Jones asked after he tucked his lighter back into his pocket, "It's too hot for town," He said, "Isn't it? We can just go back to mine, I've got a pool and a beach and a garden."

Arthur shrugged and tugged on his cigarette.

"Yeah, listen," Jones smiled, "I want to show you my house."

"You're a perfect little narcissist," Arthur said.

"You think I'm perfect?" Jones laughed breathily.

"Oh, please," Arthur scoffed, "I hardly know you."

"You know, I could say the same thing," Jones replied, "You didn't tell me anything about yourself."

"Well, what do you want to know?" Arthur asked, sitting up straight and giving Jones a pointed look.

"Where are you from?" Jones smiled, "You're English, right?"

"Yes," Arthur answered, "I am."

"Did you go to school?"

"Of course I did," Arthur laughed, "Eton and Oxford."

"Oxford?" Jones raised his eyebrows and whistled, "You must be smart."

"I'm afraid I am rather the opposite," Arthur said, "My family is rather... Receiving an education at Oxford is one of their grand traditions."

"That sounds swell," He said, with a lack of conviction, as he went down the road and entered the big postern. There was a feudal silhouette against the sky, a sparkling odour of blue hydrangeas at the gate. It felt strange to Arthur to exit the car and walk up the marble steps at a time other than the depths of night— It was as though the mist and fog of mystery that Jones had created around himself had disappeared. It felt strange to not find bright dresses stirring around and in and out of the door, and to not hear loud music or exciting speech, and instead bird voiced in trees.

"Do you like it?" Jones asked as they wandered inside, through salons and rooms with high ceilings in the bright sunshine.

Arthur frowned and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun.

"I suppose so," He said, "I feel as though there are guests concealed behind every piece of furniture."

"You say the funniest things," Alfred laughed, and moved to the stairs, Arthur swore he could hear the echo of Teddy Barn and Emma de Burgh.

'_He was a German spy during the war__—__'_

'_I heard he killed a man once__—__' _

'_He's certainly richer than God__—'_

Jones had led Arthur upstairs, through period bedroom swathed in silk and hardwood floor and through dressing rooms. Jones' own accommodation had a bedroom and a bath, and as Arthur stood and stared out of the window, Jones announced that he could arrange to eat lunch outside. Arthur nodded slowly, and trailed behind him as Jones jumped down the stairs excitedly to arrive back in the grand entrance hall of his house. With a swift movement of his hand, he beckoned Arthur to follow him outside through a glass door and into the garden, where a small table and two chairs were placed neatly on the marble tiles, just in front of the pool.

The butler poured drinks—_Martinis_, Arthur groaned internally— into the empty glasses set in front of Arthur and Jones, whose un-resting leg shook once more. Silently, the butler returned with lunch— Oyster and shrimp cocktails. Arthur groaned internally once more, and stared at Jones with a mild, polite disgust as he smiles brightly and began eating in the same, un-resting manner that his leg shook in.

"Do you like it?" Jones asked nervously, "It's the exact same menu they got in Perry's Brass Rail, in California. Have you ever been there?"

"No," Arthur said.

"I guess you wouldn't have," Jones continued excitedly, "It's a pretty long journey down to the West Coast. If you're ever in California, though, pay me a visit at the studio— It's pretty nice down there."

"I can imagine," Arthur replied politely.

"Yeah, but it get's boiling there, too— That's why I'm here over summer."

Arthur tilted his head slightly and voice hoarsely, "All alone?"

"Yeah, but I keep the place full of interesting, celebrated people." Alfred answered, looked directly at Arthur, who eyed him curiously over his glass. Arthur lifted his chin and bit the olive from his Martini, teeth sharp and white, licking his lips coyly, basking in Alfred's intense stare. He was sweating, pearls of water along the back of his neck as his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

"I know what we'll do," Jones said suddenly, dropping his cutlery into the now empty serving lacking the previous oysters and shrimps, "Why we go to the pool? We can make use of my beach, too— "

"I can't." Arthur interrupted, "I have prior arrangements."

Jones seemed to visibly deflate at his words.

"Sure, okay," He said after a pause, "Tomorrow then— Are you going to finish that?" He asked, pointing to Arthur's untouched plate of food.

"No— "

"Great," Jones smiled and pulled the serving towards him, "Anyway," He continued as Arthur frowned and drowned his martini, "We can invite some people over, and have a real ball— "

"Are you going to finish that?" Arthur questioned sharply, pointing Jones' untouched drink.

"You can have it," He laughed, "You sure drink a lot, Arthur— What are you, a drunk?"

"Perhaps," Arthur said, voice low, "I've been a drunk since nineteen-seventeen."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes— This is a dream," Arthur continued, "I've been dreaming since the end of the war. It's all a blur. It's all a dream— Simply a dream."

"What... What will you do when you wake up?" Jones asked grimly, dropping his cutlery loudly.

Arthur lit a cigarette and thought about the question.

"I'll kill myself." He settled on, saying the words casually.

It was silent, and he thought that, if he tried, he could hear the bustle of life far away in New York City.

For the second time since he had arrived in New York, he had been within and without.

He was here, in the garden of Jones', but he could visualise what the scene have looked like to a watcher from far away, basking in the glorious silence and stares, the fast-pulses and the chaos unfolding because one, one single man had reacted, and one single man had, in that very moment, looked as though he had killed a man.

Alfred F. Jones was that man.

And that is the beginning of everything.


	3. Chapter 3

Act II

July.

It was the hottest day of the year so far, and Arthur groaned over the grand piano, glistening and shining in the bright summer light glowing from the window, his notes and melodies scattered across Francis' manor's clean hardwood floor. Sweat was dripping on the back of his neck, and his glass of chilled whiskey, which he drowned in one go. Sighing, he wiped his fringe back again, straightened his posture, and tried to play the melody again, agile fingers dusting across the keys.

Achingly, he stood and opened the large glass doors, spread in every corner of the almost rounded room. With a shove and a whooshing sound, a breeze fell through Arthur's hair and body, the bright white curtains dancing in the wind and falling into the room, meeting in the centre of the room. Arthur fell on the sofa, miserably so.

'_Tomorrow then— We can invite some people over, and have a real ball.'_

_Jones__—_

With a sigh, he let his back fall on the sofa, lazily raising his arms to playfully catch and touch the curtain with his fingers, delicately dancing and chasing the white fabric and the wind. His neck was bared and his muscles contracted through the motion. With a louder than presumed noise, he let his hands fall on his chest, felling the way his ribcage ached with each shaky and poisoned breath.

In the bright light, he wondered whether the war had truly happened, whether it was all real, whether it was just a nightmare, although he was dreaming now, wasn't he? Jones hadn't fought, yet there was something about him that made Arthur uneasy, as though he believed that every word he uttered was a complete lie.

Perhaps he was poisoned too, perhaps his muscles ached as well, perhaps he was scarred in the same deep and trusted way Arthur and far too many others were.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream.

But he was numb, far too numb, and as rough as sandpaper.

The curtains still moved and danced in the wind, Arthur realised with a satisfied hum, and the breeze felt more becoming than before.

With a sudden, booming slam, dark doors to the room opened, allowing for the movement to be interrupted. Arthur sat up, and noticed with a scowl that it was Francis who quickly stomped inside, taking long strides, to close each glass door with a swift motion. The movement of the curtains was permanently stopped. Arthur frowned at him and let his back fall onto the sofa once more, apathetically and bored, perhaps a little drunk, too.

"You've been in here for hours." Francis scolded, crouching down to look at Arthur on the same eye-level.

"It's hot," He muttered, spreading an arm across his arms lazily, "Too damn hot."

"You're friend called."

"My friend?" Arthur sat up.

"Yes," Francis said, "Jones— He said you had an arrangement."

"Oh," Arthur muttered quietly.

"Are you seeing him?" Francis asked, frowning.

"Don't be silly," Arthur replied, "You can come, too— It's a silly pool party, or whatever these Americans get up to."

Francis merely made a non-committal noise as he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur stared up at the ceiling, watching the aching reflection of his body and face, perhaps soul, too, in the chandelier.

'_See, writers aren't people, exactly. Or, if they're any good, they're a whole lot of different people trying to be one person. They're like actors, in a way__— who __try so pathetically not to look in mirrors, who lean backwards trying, only to see their faces in reflecting chandeliers__—'_

He sighed once more.

:::

Francis drove quickly, though Arthur thought to himself that he remembered that the rides used to feel faster, perhaps because it all used to feel more like a race, with more excitement and more adrenaline. He could not remember the last time he cared about anything or anyone.

Arthur jumped out first, adjusting the simple white sweater and white, straight summer trousers as well as the elegant scarf tied around his neck, straight from London, matching to the sunglasses perched on his nose, speckled with shy freckles, frowning up at Jones' manor.

"Hey!" He heard a loud shout, and turned his head to see Alfred himself, clad in a navy and white striped swimsuit with a towel around his shoulder, jumping down, barefoot, the stairs leading to his mansion, his feet making strange noises on the steps. Truly, as Arthur had expected, he was far larger than Arthur, lined with strong muscle and he suddenly felt a rush of aching to hold him, just hold him, nothing explicit, per se, perhaps it was a feeling of trust and protectiveness, innocence and hope that Arthur saw in him.

"You came." Alfred said breathlessly to Arthur, as though he could not quite fathom a great mystery.

"Yes," Arthur said sceptically, eying Alfred's toned and tanned arms, "I did." He continued slowly, darting his eyes to look at Alfred's face once more, the words aching on his tongue oddly.

"Great, swell!" Alfred announced, turning to Francis, "Oh— Hi," He said, sticking out a hand, "Alfred F. Jones," He smiled brightly.

"Francis Bonnefoy," Francis replied, shaking it curiously.

"Oh," Jones smiled, "I've heard of you— Don't you do something in clothes or fashion? Well, come on in."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and followed him inside, ignoring Francis completely.

"This sure is a grand place, Mr. Jones," Francis said, staring up at the high ceiling, "How can you possibly afford all of this?"

"American Dream, my friend," Alfred laughed, "It's all the American Dream!" He raised his hands with a joyful shout and gestured to the room.

"It's all effort and dedication." He clarified, clasping Arthur on the back with so much force that Arthur felt his old wartime scar ache and burn with a painful sharp inhale of breath.

Following Alfred's quick and long strides, Arthur frowned a little at the sun shining in his eyes, almost painfully, as Alfred pushed open the doors leading to the back garden, featuring the clear, blue pool, tiled and round, as well as the stone facade around it, decked with beach-like chairs and tables, as well as an admirable bar, Arthur noted. His butler was there, too, next to the bar, standing ready for orders.

Francis walked idly to stand next to Arthur, lacing a hand around his shoulder, which Arthur pushed away as he walked towards the bar, pouring himself a drink and glancing at Alfred, chatting excitedly with the sun-tanning and smiling Michelle clad in an extravagant large sunhat and sunglasses, diamonds sparkling in the sun. Emma was also invited— Arthur assumed she was dragged in by Michelle. Francis sat down next to her, idly toying with her bronzed leg with a sharp smile. Antonio moved to stand next to Arthur by the bar, smiling at him politely as he poured himself a drink. Taking a sip from his own glass, Arthur put a hand in his pocket and sighed up at the sky, clear and blue and all too bright, similar to Alfred's eyes, Arthur remembered briefly, but he perished the thought immediately.

In the distance, he heard the roar of an automobile and the squelching of tires, as well as quick steps across the hardwood floor of Alfred's home. Opening the doors swiftly, two figures, young women, as it were, appeared, lean and tall and proud, dark too, hearing a large, one wearing broad hat and a sleek, light green dress whereas the other had opted for white, pure design.

Arthur hears more than sees Antonio's glass slip from his hands, hitting the stone ground and shattering in the silence.

The darker girl moved first, walking down the stairs one by one, slowly and painfully, walking straight to Antonio, who, at that moment, merely held his breath in silence and stared. Arthur took a sip of his drink and watched the scene, eyes darting from one figure to the other.

"I'm certainly glad to see you again," The darker girl said slowly yet elegantly, her eyebrows arching up as she talked, her voice rough yet warm, approaching Antonio carefully and almost hesitantly, as though he were a wild animal and simply the most shocking and unruly thing she had ever seen.

"I—" He began, voice quiet and his expression so fragile and pained it seemed as though he could cry, "I'm certainly glad to see you as well." Antonio said after swallowing thickly, not tearing his eyes away from her. His breathing was shaky and heavy.

In that moment, it was as though she broke, her facade tumbling away, her breathing sounding choked.

After a while, she swallowed, and inhaled sharply, jutting her chin just slightly, as though she were afraid of seeming vulnerable in the eyes of the apparent familiar figure, the memories of an old life that Antonio represented. The sun shone brightly over the pair, and her eyes seemed a little brighter than he remembered, her hair a little darker and shorter, much shorter.

Antonio nodded at her, wanting to say something, anything to her, but his voice was silent as he opened and closed his mouth.

"Ah," Alfred said, moving to stand beside the other girl who smiled brightly as he grabbed her forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Arthur felt an aching in his chest.

"This—" Alfred gestured to the girl as he led her down the stairs to stand in front of the pool, "Is Felicia Vargas."

"And that—" He pointed to the other girl, still leaning on the bar and staring at Antonio who had an unusual stony expression, "Is Chiara Vargas. They're a barrel of laughs! Practically famous on Long Island."

Francis stood up first, kissing Felicia's hand. "Francis Bonnefoy," He smiled, "It is a pleasure."

"Golly," The girl gasped, grabbing his shoulders and smiling brightly, "Don't you tell me you're _the_ Francis Bonnefoy!"

"Yes," He smiled, allowing her to hook her arm with his, "Do you like my clothes?"

"Like 'em?" She gasped, "Why, I _love_ them! Simply adore them! We both do! Isn't that right, Chiara?" She tilted her head to her sister.

"Yes," She replied hoarsely, not moving away from Antonio, who remained frozen, "Very much so."

Chiara stared at him, averting her eyes once or twice, but continuously being drawn back to him by an invisible yet steady force.

Arthur took another sip of his drink in the silence.

"Arthur Kirkland." He shook her hand.

"Chiara Vargas." She replied politely after a long pause, though frowning.

"We've..." Chiara began, addressing Arthur while tilting her head towards Antonio, her eyelashes fluttering underneath her broad hat, "We've met before, see."

"We haven't met for many years." Antonio clarified, chest heaving as he drowned his drink and turned his back to her, staring out at the sea.

"5 years next November." Chiara swallowed, and Antonio looked back at Chiara, sharply, as she merely stared back, calm and collected, fragile and breaking slowly, gaze carrying meaning without words.

"I see." Arthur answered politely.

"If you would please excuse me." He stated after a long silence, moving away from the pair to, once again, observe the chaos that the summer would bring fold out in front of him as Antonio moved slightly, inching towards her, and in that very moment, Arthur understood that he looked at her in a way that every girl wants to be looked at.

"And who are you?" Felicia suddenly asked the other two girls, still sitting next to the pool.

"I'm Michelle Mancham. It's a pleasure!" She shook her hand, "And this is Emma Van Burgh. She's a famous golfer."

"Really?" Felicia asked the uninterested woman, "That's amazing! I've seen you in magazines-Weren't you on the cover of 'Sports' Illustrated' or something? Oh, you look like you could be on the cover of Vogue!" She dabbled, "I wish I were famous."

"It's rather boring." Emma drawled.

"Yeah, yeah," Michelle rolled her eyes, "See, that's what they all they. The whole lot," She gestured to the group, leaning towards Felicia and whispering carefully, "All talented and young and rich, and then they complain about how hard their lives are."

"Oh?" Felicia laughed.

"Yes," Francis nodded wisely, "Indeed."

Arthur scoffed while taking a sip from his drink.

"And who are you, then?" Felicia smiled to Arthur, brightly.

"Beg your pardon, miss," He apologised, "Arthur Kirkland."

She pointed at him curiously. "_You're_ English."

"Yes." He said shortly, sighing in exasperation, finishing his drink. Alfred stood next to him, suddenly, with another drink in his hand for Arthur, and one for himself, too. Arthur nodded graciously and took a sip. Michelle lit a cigarette..

"How is Europe?" Felicia asked, sighing, as if longing towards an impossible, magnificent dream, "Is it warm? See, I haven't been for _ages_. Father's business simply won't allow us to travel anymore."

"Ah, that is a shame," Francis nodded, "Paris is beautiful at this time."

"Is it really?" She gasped, "Oh, we simply _must_ go, all of us together!"

"I'm sure it'll be a doddle. We'll just all jump across the Atlantic." Arthur grumbled.

"Ah, don't be such a downer, Arthur." Alfred laughed loudly, clasping him on his back again, causing Arthur to choke slightly on the mouthful of his drink.

"I'm not a downer," Arthur sniffed, "I'm merely a realist. We can't all afford to live like you do, Jones."

"And how would that be?" Alfred asked, tone defensive.

"In an illusion, a mirage—Ask anyone," Arthur drawled casually, "And the only question they have in their minds is how _you_ got to be Mr. Jones."

Alfred smiled. "Why do you always speak in riddles, Arthur?" He asked.

"My little spurt of intellectual interest makes me fit to be a brilliant ornament of any salon." Arthur piped, jutting his chin up towards Alfred and smiling smugly as Alfred laughed loudly at his response, basking in the giggles of Michelle and Felicia, along with Emma's distasteful snort.

"Riddles again," Alfred answered, "See—You writers are so full of words, you always poop out and get all mixed up, and somebody has to come in and straighten you out."

"I don't need someone to straighten me out." Arthur mumbled, "I don't need anyone at all."

"Isn't that a little sad?" Alfred asked cautiously.

"Perhaps," Arthur shrugged and took a sip from his drink, "Why do you care?"

"I don't know, I just do," Alfred laughed, "Is that dumb?" He asked shyly.

It was absurd.

Arthur laughed, slowly, and then all at once.

:::

As more alcohol flowed and more laughter ebbed into the air, the sun began to set, slowly but surely, over Alfred F. Jones' mansion and the pool. Chiara and Antonio had become invested into a small, whispered conversation in a sacred corner, Chiara leaning her body against a tree, Antonio almost leaning on top of her, the leaves and branches creating darkness around them and strange shadows. When Felicia wanted to disturb them for a party game, Michelle had effectively stopped her by chatting excitedly about fashion and parties, for she was just as easily excited as she was. Arthur had the idea that Michelle, laughing always too loudly, was a great observer and the creator of small miracles, engraved in his head from that moment on, as she was also the one who nudged Arthur to walk over to Alfred, standing on the pier leading out to the sea, alone and solemn, as the sun was set, the night sky dark, and Francis fooled miraculously with Felicia and Michelle, allowing Antonio and Chiara privacy, and time to taste the dust in the air that had fallen between them after all these years.

His shoes creaked on the wooden pier, however, Alfred did not turn around. Instead, he seemed to reach out into the night sky, towards the sea, reflecting the moon and stars. Stopping, Arthur stood next to him, whiskey glass in one hand, champagne glass in the other. Alfred turned, slowly, and watched him, his eyes seeming warm, too warm, in contrast to Arthur's cold stare.

Alfred smiled as he gestured to Arthur's champagne glass. "Is that for me?" He asked.

Arthur shrugged, and complied when Alfred took it, fingers briefly touching. In silence, Arthur turned his head to look out on the pier, trying to search for what Alfred was reaching out for.

"Why are you out here, then, Jones?" Arthur asked curiously and gently, "Are you scared of people?"

"No," He said after a moment, staring into his glass, "Listen—I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it—"

"On the inside?" Arthur queried.

"On my sleeve." Alfred looked at Arthur, smiling lopsidedly in a drunken haze, and they lapsed into silence again.

"That's not good." Arthur said determinedly, "You'll only get heart-broken and trampled to death by a woman, sooner or later."

"Maybe," Alfred shrugged his shoulders, "Maybe not."

Arthur swallowed. "How would you manage that, then?"

"Do you want to hear the most shocking thing?" He asked, leaning towards Arthur and inspecting his face curiously, "I honestly have no idea." He laughed, drawing back once more, "Never been heart-broken before, I guess. Maybe that's why." He drawled, turning his body to spin on his feet slightly, as though he wanted to drink the night.

"I'd like to lick it." Alfred continued, "The moon. What do you think it would taste like?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur said, "Perhaps apricot."

"Hm," Alfred replied, "Could be. I'd like to go there, too—Up and far away into space. I'd catch a star and bring it back, give it to you 'cause you're real' special."

"You're drunk," Arthur mumbled, not flattered and more annoyed at Alfred's all too beautiful lies, "You don't know me at all—You never will."

"But I want to," He answered, looking at him, "That accounts for something, right?"

"Perhaps." Arthur drawled, taking a sip of his drink, and the air lapsed into silence again.

"You see, we can take it for granted or you can dismiss it with the contempt we reserve for what we don't understand. It can be understood too, but only dimly and in flashes." Alfred said casually, looking out at the water, eyes fixated on a single point that Arthur could not fathom.

"What can?" Arthur asked, trying to see sense in Alfred's drunken nonsense.

Alfred merely looked into Arthur's eyes again.

After a long pause, Alfred spoke quietly and roughly as he reached out his hand again and pointed to the horizon, "Do you see it?"

"See what?" Arthur asked shortly, moving his head to look at Alfred, his face mere centimetres away. He could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Why, the light of course." Alfred laughed, and grabbed Arthur's hand, gingerly, making it point out to the sea, "The green light on the edge of the pier."

Arthur wasn't breathing anymore as he felt Alfred's body placed behind him.

"Do you see it?" Alfred hushed on Arthur's skin, "It's blinking right over there."

Arthur nodded mutely, eyes drawn back to Alfred's own, glossy in the moonlight.

"See, ever since I spent my summers here, I was enchanted by it." Alfred continued, not moving, hot breath on Arthur's neck, his eyelashes fluttering in an utterly charming way, "I don't know where it comes from, but it's out there, and it always has been out there."

"It's a mirage," Arthur said quietly, gazing deeper at Alfred, "It's all a dream. This isn't happening."

Arthur turned his head against Alfred's, leaning towards him, ignoring the laughs and shouts of joy from the others, far away in the darkness. Alfred stared, stared directly into Arthur's eyes, green, too green and much too green, the moon and dim lighting reflecting oddly in them. His skin was pale, too, and the fact that his dark eyebrows were framing his eyes made them stand out even more.

"Green," Alfred voiced hoarsely after a long silence, "Your eyes are green, too. I can see the green light in your eyes."

"Can you?" Arthur gasped.

"Yeah." He replied in a whisper, and if Arthur wouldn't have been position this close to him, he was sure he wouldn't be able to hear them.

The sound of glass smashing in the distant caused Arthur to jump.

He spun his head up to look sharply at Alfred, the dazed, almost lazy, look in his eyes disappeared quickly as he inhaled quickly and turned away, walking back to the pool. Alfred ran a hand through his hair, alone again, and drowned his champagne, painfully so.

:::

Some days later, Alfred had rung Arthur and invited him cordially to lunch in the city. Grudgingly, Arthur had complied as he wiped back his fringe, biting on his thumb and smiling shyly as he heard Alfred laugh and shout _'Swell—I'll come and pick you up and we'll both drive into town!"_.

And sure enough, in mere minutes, Arthur heard the roar of Alfred's shining and bright convertible car roll up in front of Francis' mansion. Arthur smiled as Alfred waved in a silly manner—_'Golden fool'_, Arthur thought, '_Lovely, golden fool'_. He walked down the stairs with as much grace as he could muster in the heat, sunglasses again perched on his nose. Without opening the door, Arthur jumped into the seat, and Alfred smiled at him, brightly, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses he had traded for his usual eyewear. He started the car again, the machine making a low growl. Alfred had driven them away, forward and quickly, Arthur leaning out of the window again, enjoying the cool breeze that the convertible brought him. He looked up at Alfred lazily. He truly was far too handsome: All smiles and bright eyes, and golden, tan skin. His muscles rippled underneath his shirt, along his arms, Arthur eyed, as his shirt was rolled up to his elbows.

"So, Arthur," Alfred said and grinned at Arthur, "You never told me—What do you write?"

"Whatever, really," Arthur answered.

"Aw, come on," Alfred laughed, "Sad stories? Happy ones?"

"Well—"

"Naughty ones?"

Arthur scoffed and shoved Alfred's shoulder as he continued laughing loudly, the car rolling underneath the bridge and into the city once more, air thick and heavy from the heat. After a moment of staring at Alfred, he let out his own laugh, short and raw and low in his throat, tumbling out from deep inside his chest. Alfred's own grin turned gentle at the sight.

"You have a nice laugh," Alfred remarked quietly. Arthur's eyes widened, slowly, before averting his gaze and biting the side of his thumb.

"Don't be silly, Alfred," Arthur warned.

"'Alfred'?" He answered with a curious smile, "I thought it was 'Jones'."

"I—" Arthur stammered, "It is— It was merely a slip of the tongue."

"Whatever you say, Arthur," Alfred shrugged, "I'd like it though."

"Pardon?"

"I'd like you to call me Alfred," He confessed, blushing ever-so-slightly and staring stubbornly ahead, "It sounds nice when you say it."

"Does it?" Arthur breathed.

"Yeah," Alfred said quietly.

"Alright," Arthur answered, "_Alfred_—" He rolled the word off of his tongue, "Why don't you show me just how fast your car can go?"

Alfred grinned brightly.

"Sure thing, Arthur." He said, and shifted his grip on the steering wheel, shooting Arthur one last look before achingly leaving a mix of Arthur's and his own laughs and shrieks in the air behind them as he sped deeper into the city.

:::

Alfred had led Arthur first to Central Park, which was as busy and bustling as always. The sky was clear and it was hot, suffocating, and dry. As Arthur observed the crowd, he saw, from the corner of his eyes, Emma De Burgh stand out in the crowd, Antonio, frowning. He was saying some words to her, hushed, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as he eyes Arthur and Alfred. Emma excused herself from Antonio quickly, and walked over to them.

"I've just hear the most amazing thing," She whispered, "Simply amazing." Antonio grabbed her and drew her away, their backs turned to the pair.

"It all makes sense!" Emma shouted, turning to look at Arthur, still hanging onto Antonio's arm who dragged her away with an unusual scowl, "It _all_ makes _sense_!"

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd again, Antonio whispering hushed words to her, and she nodded, blonde hair bobbing, leaving Alfred to cordially stare at Arthur, who frowned after her in pure confusion.

"What was that all about?" Alfred laughed.

"You're the Hollywood man," Arthur shrugged, "You tell me."

"You're the writer," Alfred hummed in appreciation, "You should tell me—And she's your friend."

"She is _not_ my friend," Arthur said as they walked on, forwards, into the hot, warm crowd of the city as Arthur lit a cigarette, "I don't have friends."

"Oh, yeah?" Alfred laughed, "What am I, then?" Arthur turned his head around to observe Alfred, hoping to find a mocking smile, a sneer, pity in his eyes—Instead, he found a almost tragic and sentimental gaze of affection, and it was a silent promise that there was no one in the world he so wanted to be with.

With the clicking of her heels, Emma signalled her return, and the moment was ruined. She was alone this time, and breathing quickly as she hushed to Alfred in the crowd, "I've simply got to talk to you. You can come too," She looked to Arthur, "It doesn't really matter."

:::

"It was in October in 1917," Said Emma, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea garden of the Plaza Hotel in the warm afternoon air, "Chiara Vargas was just eighteen, two years older than me, at the time, and she was, according to Toni, that is, by _far_ the most popular of all the young girls, and the house with the largest of banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to the Vargas'. See, there was this _officer_ and they sat and talked together, he called her up _all_ the time, and they were so engrossed in each other and _young_. They had a fling, but it seemed all too real. Too much, 'yanno? That officer was _Toni_. Our Toni! It all seems _terribly_ romantic doesn't it? Especially since he went off to war and she stayed back. Her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say good-bye to a soldier who was going overseas. _That_ was Toni. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn't on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn't play around with the soldiers any more.

In February she was presumably engaged to a man from Chicago, all pomp and circumstance. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at _three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. _Imagine that!

On that day, she received a letter, and she pulled on the string of pearls, she pulled and they ripped, she _screamed_ "Tell 'em all Chiara's change' her mind. Say: 'Chiara's change' her mind!'".

She began to cry, she cried and cried. She wouldn't let go of the letter. I don't know what it said. Next day at five o'clock she married the guy without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months' trip to Europe.

Well, you saw what happened at Jones' at the pool. She saw Toni for the first time in _years_. She had the strangest voice. See, _Toni_ was the officer she met in the war. It was _Toni's_ letter, too, it must have been. And it was Toni that told me to tell you all of this." She finished with a sigh and took a sip of her tea.

"But what does he want me to do?" Alfred asked slowly, using his finger to idly trace around the rim of his glass.

"Invite them to tea." Emma said with a sigh, leaning back and taking another sip of her tea.

"To tea." Arthur echoed sceptically, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Yes," Emma laughed, "It's all frightfully embarrassing, I think."

"I'm sorry," Arthur voiced again with a sharp laugh, "But he wants _you_ to tell _him_ to invite _her_ to a stranger's garden so that _he_ can come over? They haven't seen each other for years and this is the modest proposal he conducts?"

Alfred laughed, "He's afraid, he's waited so long."

"Why don't you simply invite him to yours?" Arthur asked Emma harshly, "Or invite him to his own place?

"He's shy and nervous! And Jones' is closer to Toni's house. He wants her to see his house, see, but he's terribly embarrassed and awkward about it. You saw him at the pool!" She sighed.

"She's _not_ supposed to know about it. Just invite her 'round." She pleaded.

Alfred combed a hand through his hair. "Alright," He said after a moment, "Care to join me, Arthur?"

"What?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"Come over for tea on the day. You can bring Toni." Alfred said, leaning back and lifting his hand to rest by his chin and lips, "How's Wednesday?"

Arthur paused. "Fine," He found himself saying, "Alright."

"Great," Alfred laughed and Arthur eyed with questionably, "It'll be fun!"

"Right." Arthur drawled, finishing his cigarette and extinguishing it.

"Perfect!" Emma said with a small smile, "If you'll excuse me, I've got things to do and people to see." She walked away without even waiting for polite words from Arthur and Alfred, who merely stared after her.

Alfred coughed in the silence as Arthur finished his drink and stared forward. Alfred merely blankly gazed at his glass, his finger tracing the rim. Suddenly, he jumped up, dug in his pocket and dropped a few bills on the table. Arthur eyed him in silence.

Arthur nodded and, placing the cigarette between his lips, he tugged on his jacket, acknowledging that, without his consent, Alfred had paid for him.

The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the film stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight.

"'_Every morning, every evening—Ain't we got fun? Not much money, oh, but honey—Ain't we got fun?_'" Alfred sang under his breath, kicking at the ground with his feet. Arthur ignored his antics coldly, deciding it was too hot to complain about Alfred's lack of singing skills, "Do you like jazz, Arthur?"

"It's alright, I suppose."

"Alright?" Alfred gasped, "Why, I never!"

Arthur laughed a little at the sheer obscenity of Alfred's hurt face.

"We should go dancing," Alfred suggested, tone excited once more. "Yeah—" He said, "Come on, let's go dancing right now!"

"Now?" Arthur scoffed, looking up at the sky, "It's not even evening."

"Listen," Alfred laughed, '"'_Every morning, every evening—_'" He sang, reaching out and pulling Arthur's wrists, "Come on, Arthur, dance with me!" He said, and pushed Arthur away only to pull him close once more. Arthur laughed, shyly. Alfred's hands were larger than his, he thought, they covered his own easily, and his palms were sweating yet oddly enough, Arthur wasn't disgusted. If felt nice to know that Alfred was human, and that he was holding Arthur so securely yet gently it hurt, even though his grip was a little too strong and his fingers a little too broad in comparison to Arthur's own.

"'_Ain't we got fun? Not much money, oh, but honey—Ain't we got fun?_'" Alfred sang.

"You have a horrid voice," Arthur choked, "You really mustn't sing in public."

"Yeah, but see— You still listened," Alfred laughed, "And that's all that matters."

Arthur stared at him.

"You didn't pull away," Alfred said quietly, meeting his gaze steadily. Arthur was sure Alfred could hear his heart beat, it was far too loud in his own ears.

Arthur was first to tear his gaze away.

"What a funny world you people live in." He said, staring up at the sky.

"What?" Alfred asked.

"You Americans," Arthur replied, "Too damn noisy and without a care in the world, no sense of propriety."

"We're not clever like you," Arthur rolled his eyes at Alfred's words, "So we have to be clever in other ways because if we weren't there wouldn't be any fun." Alfred grinned.

"You sound rather old and wise." Arthur mumbled.

"I feel old," Alfred laughed, "But not very wise."

Arthur hummed in appreciation.

"You don't look old," He said.

"I'm not," Alfred answered, "I'm twenty-five."

"Twenty-five?" Arthur stared at Alfred in disbelief, "That must mean—You enlisted at seventeen?"

"Yeah," Alfred shrugged, "It's the right thing to do, isn't it?" He frowned.

Arthur inhaled a long breath. "Twenty-two is not old, Jones." He said slowly.

As they passed through a barrier of dark trees, and then a facade of Fifty Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. In that moment, Arthur understood that, unlike Chiara Vargas and Antonio Fernández Carriedo, he had no single person whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so he drew himself closer to Alfred, curiously and hesitantly, in the ache of loneliness and hopelessness Alfred F. Jones felt bright and far too warm in the hot and heavy summer air.

:::

Days later, the heat had no escaped.

"Are you in love with me?" Chiara drawled at Alfred, who smiled a forced grin as he escorted her to his mansion.

Alfred shook his head. "'Fraid not, Chiara." He laughed, "And anyway, you've got a husband!"

Chiara shrugged. "Oh, you know how men are," She frowned.

The butler opened the door to the living room, made of dark wood and massive, with an uncanny lightness. Inside, the room was large and bright, the windows were opened and it was warm, though not unwearyingly hot.

"He _is_ in love with me," Chiara whispered, eyes drawn to the floor, as she sat down on the chair.

:::

Dutifully, Arthur had knocked on Alfred F. Jones' door three times, gently, Antonio, wearing a straw hat and a white suit, bright smile and all, in tow. As the butler led the two towards the sitting room, white curtains light and fluttering from the wind from the open windows, Antonio babbling excitedly about one thing or another, his shoes clicking quickly.

The butler opened the doors to them in a swift motion, revealing the view of Chiara standing elegantly, slightly bored, perhaps, by the window, staring out. She turned her head around, sharply, as though sensing their presence, and locked eyes with Antonio. She stopped breathing. Antonio nodded his head at her, not losing her gaze. Arthur backed away from him, slightly, as Antonio breathed heavily, hand in his pocket.

Walking towards him, curiously, she opened her mouth once or twice, no words coming out, her eyebrow raising slightly. She smiled a curious smile at him and returned the nod.

:::

Antonio stood by the mantel piece, dark brown, wooden, and bare with the exception of a rather strange wooden clock. His elbow was resting on it, nonchalantly, perhaps trying to appear casual, whereas Chiara sat, back straight and head turned forwards, distantly away from him. As the butler poured each of them their tea, Alfred coughed awkwardly, and Arthur lit a cigarette in the silence.

"We've," Antonio started, "We've met before, see." As he moved his elbow, the clock on the mantel fell to the floor with a resulting clang, the top piece falling. Antonio tried to grab it, but in vain, and he hit it once or twice to try and secure the dismantled piece, once more in vain. Chiara swallowed as she observed him.

"Sorry about the clock." He told Alfred with a shy smile.

"It's an old clock." Alfred replied awkwardly and idiotically.

"Lovely, though," Chiara said suddenly, "A lovely clock."

"Yes." Arthur agreed, and in the silence, he smoked his cigarette. Alfred watched the smoke travel upwards.

"Tea." Alfred gestured to the cups in front of them.

"Darling, thank you," Chiara replied.

Arthur watched Chiara and Antonio take a synchronised sip, their porcelain shaking, and in other circumstances, he would have laughed.

"Well," Alfred said after a long moment of silence, hitting the palms of his hands to his thighs as he stood up, "Arthur." He addressed him, and Arthur turned his head sharply to look up at him, "Why don't I show you the pool?"

Arthur nodded mutely, "Splendid." He said, and stood up, following Alfred out of the room.

"Wait!" Antonio sprung up from his seat, and cornered the two outside of the room, "Where are you going?" He asked in immediate alarm.

"Just outside," Alfred replied with a shy laugh, and Arthur observed the curiously nervous expressions on his face, "We'll be back."

"This is a mistake," Antonio panicked, "A terrible, terrible mistake."

"You're just embarrassed, that's all," Arthur exhaled, "Chiara's embarrassed too."

"She's embarrassed?" He repeated incredulously.

"Just as much as you are." Alfred said loudly with a laugh.

"Don't speak so loudly," Arthur scolded with a frown, "You're acting like a little boy," He addressed Antonio once more, "Not only that, but you're rather rude. Chiara's sitting in there all alone-"

He raised his hand to stop Arthur's words, who snapped his mouth shut abruptly. With unforgettable reproach, Antonio opened the door cautiously, and walked back inside the room, closing the door behind him.

:::

"What do you think they're talking about in there?" Alfred smiled brightly, splashing around in his pool, sun shining on his tan skin and reflecting in the cool water.

Watching the ripples, Arthur, feet dangling in the water as he sat on the edge of the pool, took a drag from his cigarette. "Well," Arthur asked, "How to fix things, how to fix everything just the way it was before."

"I wouldn't expect too much of her, anyhow. She's married." He ventured on, "You can't repeat the past."

"Can't repeat the past?" Alfred asked incredulously, "Why, of course you can!"

Arthur laughed loudly, tossing his head back and bearing his neck, his lean and long legs kicking underneath the water.

"I wonder what will happen to them," Alfred mumbled.

"To Chiara and Antonio?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Arthur said, "They'll be lovers, won't they?"

"Lovers?" Alfred asked, biting his lip, "That's not—That's not very romantic."

"On the contrary." Arthur replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Why," Arthur laughed, "Has the great and grand Alfred F. Jones not had his fair share of lovely ladies?"

"Not really," He blushed, averting his eyes from Arthur's stare, "I don't— I never understood the whole lovers thing. It just seems— Painful, I guess."

"Painful?" Arthur asked cautiously.

"Yeah, painful," Alfred said solemnly, "Lovers never last. And when they do, it hurts, doesn't it?"

Arthur swallowed thickly. "All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don't come back."

Alfred stared at him for a long moment. Arthur took a drag of his cigarette.

"Huh," He said, placing his arms out of the water, folded onto the stone surface, and resting his titled head on them, looking up at Arthur, "You say the damnedest things, Arthur."

"Do I?"

"Yeah," Alfred smiled as Arthur leaned on the palms of his hands and stared into the sun, cigarette between his lips as he brushed his fringe back, "You do."

With a sudden movement, Alfred hoisted himself up to turn and sit down, closely, next to Arthur on the edge of the pool, arms flexing under the weight of his body. Arthur extinguished the cigarette and watched him, coyly. His hair was dripping, and Arthur followed a droplet of water trail down the side of his forehead to his neck, eventually disappearing into his navy swimsuit.

Alfred watched Arthur's eyes move and dart, slowly and steadily, and he leaned forward, closer, but with the distinct feeling that Arthur was still mysteriously unattainable, inching distantly away despite all of Alfred's efforts to reach towards him, to move him and hold him and _understand_ him and to cure the unmistakable loneliness and sadness in Arthur's heart, hidden away behind layers and layers of isolation. Arthur's gaze moved upwards to lock eyes with him, the sun shining down on him in a way that almost made him seem golden, holy, and unattainable. Arthur leaned towards him, and for a moment, Arthur unfolded himself for Alfred, blossoming like a flower and the incarnation was complete. He was losing the facade he had carefully built up like a symmetrical wall around him, and it was the single most beautiful sight Alfred had ever seen. It was as though the idea that tomorrow Alfred would run faster, stretch his arms out farther, and that he could have everything that he ever wanted to own, was spread in the palm of his hand and he was looking down at it by looking into Arthur's green eyes, as green as the green light on the other side of the water at the end of his pier, and in the light he understood that it had represented the same yearning towards the impossible, the same lack in orientation, that Arthur brought into his rioting mind and body, heart and soul.

As Arthur moved closer and Alfred could feel his breath on Alfred's lips, still dripping from the pool water, and see the wonderful freckles on his pale face, the sharp arch of his jaw and the sheer intensity of his eyes from underneath his dark eyebrows, they weren't even overly large, up close, Alfred accepted with the resignation of a ghost assigned to a haunted house that he was absolutely horrified by the idea that Arthur would ever be with anyone other than himself.

Alfred was heaving in breaths, short and damp, as Arthur almost closed his eyes in a fluttering motion, shyly, his lips opening slightly. He titled his head in an elegant manner, as though he were curious as to what Alfred would do next. Alfred lifted a hand to place it on the side of Arthur's face, below his ear, skin hot and slightly damp, and Arthur slowly opened his eyes again, staring up at him once more with concentration and a stern expression, guarding himself once more, as Alfred tightened the hold on the back of his head, feeling the surprisingly silky hair tangle between his fingers. In the silence, Alfred could hear some birds and a car in the distance over his loud and shallow breathing.

Swallowing thickly, Alfred whispered "_Damn_," over Arthur's lips, and Arthur arched upwards, quickly raising his hands to spread over Alfred's shoulder and the back of his head.

Arthur stopped breathing.

Alfred pressed his lips against Arthur's, shutting his eyes with an almost pained expression at the rawness of the emotions he felt stirring in an uneasy knot in the bottom of his stomach. Arthur's lips were slightly chapped, his breath smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and he didn't cry or he did not faint of happiness. He didn't even smile. He merely pressed up against Alfred with the same passion and exhilaration that Alfred had felt.

After a long moment, Arthur slowly pulled away, hold still tight on Alfred's neck and shoulders, as he opened his mouth once or twice to try and speak, to say something, anything at all, but broken vowels and consonants came out hoarsely and quietly. Groaning, Alfred darted forward once more, quickly capturing Arthur's lips again, more harshly and firmly as he opened his mouth to him, breath hot and heavy, tongue too messy and clumsy. Arthur moaned lowly in his throat, muffled by lips sliding over lips, wet and moist, as he scratched at Alfred's shoulder, his nails leaving marks.

Breathing heavily, Alfred pulled away, slowly, keeping his eyes closed as he tightened the hold on Arthur's face. Arthur opened his eyes, although the stung, and he tried to form words and sentences multiple times.

"You look so cool," Arthur said, his voice calm and collected, yet raw and hoarse, weak and fragile, entirely unlike the usual powerful and sharp words from his mouth, "You always look so cool."

His mouth opened a little, and he continued to look at Alfred, as if he had just recognised him as someone he knew a long time ago.

If Alfred does not say something now, the moment will be lost, and Arthur will be gone, distant and unobtainable again.

In the time it takes Alfred to think this, he was already left alone next to his pool. In his anger, he kicked the water angrily, splashing wildly, and let lose a loud "_Fuck_!", not caring whether any soul in the world would hear him.


	4. Chapter 4

Act III

August.

There had been music from Jones' mansion all summer, in his blue gardens, men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. But after the event at the pool with Arthur, Jones' castle cut a grave silhouette against a stormy sky. There were no more parties. Jones' lights went out one by one, for the very same person, one Arthur Kirkland, that had become a source of satisfaction to Alfred F. Jones had become a dangerous, imposing threat that he set out to tame too soon yet all together too late. In another life, in another universe, perhaps then-

"You should have seen the way he looked at you," Francis said quietly, frowning at Arthur, propped up on his pastel pink silk pillows, "Like you were the ocean, and he was desperate to drown."

"What a flattering comparison," Arthur replied, "Are you stating that he wishes me to kill him?"

"No," Francis laughed, hollowly, "The opposite. He wants you to live, merely live. No more surviving," Arthur stared at him, "Enjoying life, I perceive. Wonderful, isn't it, _Arthur_?" Francis drawled.

Arthur frowned from his position next to him, legs crossed in front of him, as he sat on the bed with him, toying with the spread blanket.

"Isn't love beautiful?" Francis continued.

"Love?" Arthur scoffed, "Love, love, _love_. You only ever talk of love, it isn't real-"

"I know it is real because I feel it."

It rained outside.

"Shut up," Arthur sniffed, ignoring the pain in his chest and the aching of his heart as his pulse fluttered, "You're pathetic. Do you know that? Absolutely pathetic."

"You are a brilliant liar, Arthur," Francis smiled, "I know you are, I can tell. I know you too well, don't I?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, perhaps a little too quickly. He groaned, digging the palms of his hands into the sockets of his eyes as his elbows rested on his knees.

"What will you do now, Arthur?" Francis asked, looking at him, moving his head to try and meet Arthur's gaze. Arthur slowly pulled his hands away from his eyes and glared at Francis for a long moment.

He sprung off the bed, unusually energetic. "I want to leave." He suddenly as he searched inside the contents of Francis' silver cigarette box, hands moving too fast. He was nervous.

"Why?" Francis said slowly, not in the slightest confused, "You can't

"I _can_," Arthur sniffed, "And I _will_."

"No, you cannot not," Francis leered, "You are running away from your problems."

"No," Arthur said a little too quickly, "And even if I were, it would be my choice and mine alone."

"You cannot leave me," Francis stated sharply, "I brought you here, I brought you out of Europe, out of England, out of _everything_ that went wrong."

Arthur frowned at him.

"You cannot leave me here." Francis repeated, "You are tired, you cannot leave-"

"Don't tell me what to do," Arthur lit a cigarette and frowned at Francis.

Francis sighed deeply.

"Stop it." Arthur snapped, "I'll leave tomorrow. I can't bear it here anymore."

"I'd kill you." Francis said darkly, rising out of his comfortable position in his bed to stand next to Arthur.

"What did you just say?" Arthur questioned sternly, leering at him.

"I said that I'd kill you, if you left."

"Why do you say that?" Arthur asked quickly, turning his head to look at him.

"You know why." Francis said calmly.

"I'm afraid I don't," Arthur laughed shortly, hands shaking as he took a long drag from his cigarette, "Other than that, I'd like to see you _try_. You'd probably have a fit that I got blood on your clothes, you did that before. You wouldn't have the-"

Francis pushed him against the wall, pinning him as Arthur struggled and shouted. The wound on his back burned again.

Francis inhaled Arthur, breathed him in as he pushed his nose against his cheek.

"He loves you," Francis breathed on his cheek, "He loves you, he loves you, _he loves you_. Even if you do not admit it to yourself. There are all kinds of love in the world-"

"You're lying, you bastard-" Arthur growled, trying to remain dignified even in the submitting position.

"But never the same love twice." Francis finished and sighed, raising a hand to caress Arthur's cheek, staring at him contently and calmly. Arthur observed him with an angry expression before shoving him off him and slamming him away before punching him, square in the jaw in a single practiced movement. The sound echoed in the room, widely, and it sounded hollow and cool. Francis rubbed his sore cheek, whispering his native tongue as he swore.

Yet again, Arthur was within, and without, and he could clearly imagine the scene portrayed to an outsider, the tension and the deathly noise of silence, laced with a current of mutual distrust and hate, it was always hate and distrust between them.

Francis swallowed thickly as he watched Arthur hang his head numbly, his shoulders shaking. Perhaps he was crying, although Francis could not hear sobs in the silence.

"I hate you," Arthur hissed through his teeth, raising his head to look at him, no tears in sight, "I hate you so much."

"I know," Francis mumbled, "I know, my dear... I know you are angry at me, but you are merely confused-"

"Don't be a fool, Francis." Arthur mocked.

"You're the only fool I see!" Francis shouted, "Think about what you are losing! You leave me, you leave your family, you leave him- Do you not care about anything?"

Francis breathes turned into heaves in the silent room. A clock chimed in the distance. Arthur stared at the floor.

"About me?" He screamed, "Do you care about me?"

"I don't," Arthur sneered slowly as he raised his eyes to look at Francis, stare intense and intimidating, "I don't give a damn about you or _Mr. Jones_ or anyone else, for that matter."

"I care about you so much-" Francis began quickly, but he felt his throat constricting his words.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Arthur shouted loudly, voice booming in the room, "Why can't you just stay out of my life?"

"I care about you, Arthur!" Francis replied, shouting as well, "I promised I would-"

"Those promises don't really cut it anymore, Francis." Arthur sneered and took a drag of his cigarette.

"I..." Francis looked at Arthur, who gave him a pointed look, "I... You're lovely."

Arthur gave him a cold stare.

"You're so lovely, Arthur." He continued softly, raising a hand towards him, as though Arthur were at hands' reach and if he could just move closer, he would be able to touch him and hold him, "You're so lovely to look at. Not perfect, but lovely. Absolutely lovely."

Arthur scoffed loudly.

"I don't want to hear that rot."

"Stay here, Arthur, stay with me-" Francis cooed, stepping closer to Arthur, who spun around and walked away from him.

"Don'ttell me what to do!"

"You say that, but you're lying-"

"I'm not!" Arthur shouted, "I'm not! I... You... Leave me alone!"

"No one will ever love you," Francis' voice broke as he spoke, "Because you do not let them. Why don't you let them? Why do you not let me?"

Arthur lowered his tone. "Fuck off," He said, hoarsely.

He did not slam the door on his way out.

He did not close it.

He took pleasure in knowing that Francis stood up mere minutes later to close it instead.

Francis was left alone, and he felt as though Arthur was so close that he could hardly fail to grasp him, yet he was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, somewhere where the night roared in the same melody as one Alfred F. Jones' pulse.

:::

About half way between Long Island and New York, the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it, shrinking away from a desolate area of land, coined as a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, forming houses and chimneys and men moving dimly, crumbling through the powdery air. It was New York's waste depository, in a way, the remains of a glorious, golden city, and was bound on one side by a small and foul river. When the drawbridge is up, the passengers on the steaming train are forced to stare at the scene for as long as it takes. The richer you are, the longer it seems to take, Gilbert presumed, for in his younger years, he couldn't even afford a train ticket and yet here he was, frowning next to a loud child in the heat. The child was alone. There was no adult supervision. It banged a small drum rhythmically, and Francis smiled at it hesitantly as Antonio sighed, staring out of the window.

"We're getting off," Gilbert insisted, taking hold of Antonio's elbow, who was dazed and lazy and tired. He forced Francis, too, his determination bordering on violence.

Following under a low railroad fence, they had walked, hesitantly, along the road. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, with two storeys and red painted windows. 'Repairs- Vlad D. Popescu' it said, 'Cars Bought and Sold'. The interior was bar, the only car visible was a dust-covered wreck in a dim corner. Vlad appeared from the office, messy light brown hair and with horrible teeth, almost fang-like, and he was spiritless, in his younger years, perhaps, he could have been a glimpse of vaguely handsome.

"Hello, Vlad, old man," Gilbert said, slapping him on his shoulder with a laugh, "How're ya?"

"I can't complain," He answered unconvincingly, "When're you gonna sell me that car?"

"Sometime next week." Gilbert said shortly, his eyes darting to the staircase leading upwards, as though searching for something, or someone.

"Works pretty slow, don't he?" Vlad laughed, tossing a dirty rag to the floor.

"No, he doesn't," Gilbert answered coldly, "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I should just sell it somewhere else after all. This place is a dump." He finished cruelly.

"I don't mean that," Vlad explained quickly, "I just meant-"

His voice faced off as Gilbert glanced impatiently around the garage once more, ignoring Francis and Antonio, each stepping on the doorstep and smoking a cigarette in vain. There were footsteps on the stairs, and after a moment, a woman, one Elizabeta Hedervary, blocked out the light from upstairs, tall and lean, her face screaming vitality, as though her nerves were continually smouldering. She smiled, slowly, at Gilbert, walking past her husband as though he were a ghost, and shook hands with Gilbert, who clawed at her hand. She wet her lips, and without turning, she spoke to Vlad:

"Don't you have to give him that _form_ for the car?"

"You don't know anythin' about business," Vlad said hurriedly, "_Women_."

"Shut up," Elizabeta commanded, "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down."

Vlad groaned, and went towards the little office as his wife moved closer to Gilbert.

"I want to see you," Gilbert said intently, "Get on the next train."

"All right."

"I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded at his words and moved away, just as Vlad Popescu moved away from his office door. Francis wanted to go and give her a pat on the back.

"Terrible place, ain't it?" Vlad said politely, frowning outside at the two figures of Antonio and Francis, rich and clad in expensive, white suits.

"Awful." Gilbert said, "We better get goin'. Gotta be on the next train."

"Don't forget about that car!" Vlad said with a laugh, "Or I'll kill one of ya!"

Gilbert laughed coldly as a response, and hurried out of the garage. Down the road and out of sight, they waited patiently for Elizabeta to arrive. A grey and scrawny German child was sitting on the ground, drawing patterns in the dust with a stick. Gilbert swallowed thickly and wiped sweat away from his forehead with a clean handkerchief, immediately stained by the dust and dirty from the valley.

:::

"I want to get one of those dogs," Elizabeta said earnestly from inside the taxi cab, tapping on the front glass, "I want to get one for the apartment."

Gilbert fondled with her thigh and ordered the driver to back up the car. "Why do you want one?" He asked with a gentle smile.

"They're adorable," She laughed.

Gilbert nodded and walked to the grey old man. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.

"What kind are they?" She asked eagerly as he came to the taxi-window.

"All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?"

"I'd like one of those police dogs, I don't suppose you got that kind?"

The man looked doubtfully into the basket, and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of it's neck.

"That ain't a police dog," Gilbert said.

"Not exactly a _police_ dog," The man replied, "It's more of an Airedale."

"I think it's cute," Elizabeta said enthusiastically, "How much do you want for it?"

"Ten dollars." The man replied after a moment.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" She asked delicately as he passed it to her, and it settled in her lap, fondling with her dress.

"That dog's a boy."

"Good," Gilbert laughed, "See, we already got a name, it's Vlad."

"It's funny 'cause he's a dog, too," Elizabeta added, "Nothin' but a mean old dog."

:::

Days later, the heat began to flare up again, even indoors and in the large dining room of his mansion, and in the warm, heavy air, Gilbert huffed up at the ceiling, balancing a glass of whiskey on the palm of his hand. Anneliese snatched it from him, giving him a pointed look, and he sighed, staring at his feet as she interlinked her arm onto his. Beside him, Emma and Michelle fanned themselves as Francis stared into the distance, silently. Antonio drew a long, straight line on the hardwood floor. There was a jazz band playing, and other guests around, too, but it was not as busy or full or magical as one of Jones' gathering, Michelle realised, and she sighed as she took a sip of her champagne.

Anneliese gave Gilbert a pointed look, which he ignored, and she walked over to Antonio, his eyes heavy and sad.

"Do you live down on Long Island, too?" She asked him.

"Yes, just about." He replied.

"Really? I was down there at a party a month ago. At a man named Jones'. Do you know him?"

"I live close to him." Antonio nodded.

"Well, I don't know where all his money comes from," Anneliese drawled, "But it's all fake. I thought it was ghastly. Too loud, and the women! Did you see their skirts?"

"I did," Michelle said with a frown, "I think it's marvellous. It's all marvellous- The men I meet at Jones' were all _very_ good sports." Anneliese gasped at her words, and Francis wanted to congratulate Michelle.

"It's a _temple_ of virtue," Michelle continued, "Although, summer's nearly over. Did you travel?"

"Yes," Anneliese sniffed, "I visited my sister. She lives over in Chicago."

"Chicago?" Emma laughed, "My, how exotic. I expected Europe."

Anneliese gasped. "Of course I have relations in Europe." She answered quickly, "Do you?"

"Yes," Emma replied, raising an eyebrow, "Merely under different circumstances than you, surely."

Anneliese stared at her blankly.

"The war." Emma clarified with anger lacing her tone. She took a long drag of her cigarette.

"I see," Anneliese nodded, "It's frightful what they're saying about the Germans."

"Is it?" Emma ground her teeth and tightened the hold on her cigarette.

"Yes," Anneliese stared blankly at Gilbert, "It's hardly fair to the economy."

"Oh, really?" Emma drawled, and Michelle darted her eyes quickly, from one woman to the other.

"I say," Michelle gasped, "Who is that figure?" She pointed into the darkness.

"Where?" Anneliese squinted onto the horizon.

It was a tall figure, taller than Anneliese by far, and she walked with as much grace one could muster while being as drunk as she was, her dark makeup messy and her skirt mussed up on the side.

It was Elizabeta, walking chokingly over to Gilbert.

"Someone," She sneered at him, "Forgot to invite me to this party, so here I am. Without an invitation, surely _rude_, but principles are like prayers."

Anneliese turned her body to scowl at her. "Noble?" She asked.

"Surely," Elizabeta scoffed, "But awkward at a party."

Gilbert laughed loudly, and Anneliese joined him, slowly and awkwardly. Emma and Michelle stared at each other in the silence.

"Let's drink!" Michelle clapped her hands together, "Bring the champagne out!"

"Brilliant idea." Emma drawled, "I'm positively famished. You're all such bores. Where're Jones and that English one... Arthur, wasn't it? Arthur Kirkland?"

Gilbert uncorked the champagne, and it spilled across the floor. He poured each guest a glass in silence.

"He's gone," Francis voiced around a glass of champagne, "A family matter."

"I believe Jones offered to accompany him." Michelle continued, eying the look of surprise on Francis' face with a smile in his direction.

"They are frightfully close," Emma rolled her eyes, "I mean, they _hardly_ know each other."

"It's _crazy_!" Michelle laughed, "Maybe they're soul mates or somethin'."

"Perhaps," Francis murmured.

"How romantic..." Emma drawled, "I find that they're both charming, anyhow."

"Charming," Francis said, "Charming indeed."

"Absolute dears." Emma frowned into her glass.

"I think so!" Michelle laughed once more, "Say, Francis, we should dance. Come on!" She grabbed his hand and led him to the floor, handling him almost painfully tightly.

Listening to the loud music, Michelle drew him close, and hushed in his ear, "There're rumours goin' around. 'Bout Artie and Alfie, see."

"What do they say?" Francis breathed.

Michelle gave him a pointed look, eyebrows raised, her eyes bright under her heavy and dark makeup.

"I see," Francis nodded.

"You start 'em?" She asked with a knowing glance to him.

Francis titled his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.

Michelle laughed loudly, her dress bobbing as she danced. "I knew it," She breathed as Francis drew her closely, "I goddamn knew it from the moment I saw you look at him, and the way Jones looked at him. _You're_ jealous."

Francis laughed knowingly, and Michelle scoffed.

"You are," She expanded, "You don't want our lil' Artie to move out of your reach. You're insane, just because someone else wants him... I mean, is it really surprise, he's handsome, I guess-"

"Don't be foolish," He pulled her close, nails scratching her shoulder as she tried to look at him, surprise written on her face.

"You're crazy!" She gasped in pain, trying to retch herself free from his grasp, "Why- Why do you call me a fool for pointin' out the obvious?" Michelle said sharply.

"You're a fool," He hissed, "And a liar. Leave me out of this, I do not wish to be involved with their little quarrel."

In a sudden motion, Francis let her go and walked away, quickly, into the darkness. Michelle crossed her arms and frowned.

"Hey," A young man said, "You got a partner?"

"No," She sniffed, "But I do now." She took his hand and he smiled down at her.

:::

"Might I ask who you are?" Anneliese drawled, eying Elizabeta, "This is a _private_ establishment."

"Elizabeta. Elizabeta Hedervary." She replied, not offering to shake the hand that Anneliese had drawn out. She lit a cigarette, and Anneliese coughed from the smoke.

"I take it _you_ are _Mrs_. Beilschmidt?" Elizabeta asked her, though looking at Gilbert, who drowned his drink.

"Yes," Anneliese answered calmly.

"You see," Elizabeta walked closer to Anneliese, "I think it's _marvellous_ that you get on so well with your husband. Mine is a brute."

"Oh, dear." Emma mouthed quickly around a sip of champagne, and Francis drowned his martini.

"He hits me," Elizabeta continued, "He says '_Elizabeta_! You _bitch_! You bitch, you bitch, you _bitch_! Bitch, bitch, _bitch_!'" She shouted at Anneliese, who merely compressed her lips into a tight, white line.

"I was crazy about him for a while," She said, "But the only crazy I was was when I married him. He borrowed somebody's best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out. 'Oh, is that your suit?' I said, 'This is the first time I ever heard about it.' And then I gave it to him and cried, all afternoon. I wept." She took a drag from her cigarette, "Like a baby. I really ought to get away from him," She resumed, tears streaming down her face as her makeup ran down messily, "I've been living over that garage ever since I could remember."

"Have you ever been to a garage?" She asked Anneliese, who merely stared at her, "Have you? It smells. It smells _rotten_." She clarified, "It's alright if you haven't. Before I left home, I wasn't ever in one, too. I didn't speak a word of English. My old family house had guard dogs, huge, gigantic guard dogs, and a cook and maids and a butler." She sniffed and wiped at her face with her gloved hand.

She stepped closer to Anneliese, slowly, and the circle around them watched, carefully, as she extinguished the cigarette with a sneer on Anneliese's pale forearm, who screamed in pain, "You're _crazy_! She's _crazy_! Gilbert, _do_ something!"

Gilbert merely watched Elizabeta disappear into the night once more.

He couldn't place the feeling he felt in his heart.

:::

Antonio broke free from the crowd the moment Michelle and Francis began dancing, and decided to walk outside of the room, leading himself to the garden. At the gates, he saw a single, lean figure, and upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a woman.

He walked over to her, lighting a cigarette.

"Hello." She said, and Antonio lifted his head to stare at her in wonder when he understood that it was Chiara, here, in front of him, waiting outside.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"I... I don't know." She gave a strained laughed, "I can't remember."

"Have you been drinking?" He walked towards her, closer yet, and he could study her dark face. Her eyebrows scrunched together, and she scowled at the floor.

"It wouldn't matter if I did or didn't," She said, jutting her chin up at him, "Did you?"

"Yes." He replied earnestly, silence resulting.

"I saved your letters." Chiara began, awkwardly blurted out the words.

"All of them?" Antonio hushed, his breath leaving his lips, as he moved closer to her.

"Yes." Chiara replied, "Each and every one."

"I saved yours, too," Antonio replied, "I read them during the war."

"... You never told me what happened to you." She said.

"I came back," Antonio said shortly, "Isn't that enough?"

She frowned, and decided to pursue the topic no further. She leaned against the tree, folding her arms behind her back, placing her hands just under her lower back.

She jutted her chin at him again.

"How's the party?" She asked.

"Horrible." Antonio laughed, "Anneliese is so boring."

"All wives are boring." She said, raising her eyebrows.

"You're married, too." Antonio said, and she opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out.

"That's different," She sighed, "She likes her husband. I hate mine."

"Why did you marry him, then?" Antonio asked slowly.

"Money," She counted on her fingers, "Power,"

She leaned closer to him and whispered into his blushing ear, "_Glory_."

Antonio wasn't breathing.

"You look so splendid," Chiara hushed, "When did you... Why..."

"You'll ruin me." She whispered over his lips and her breath shook violently as she closed her eyes, painfully. She licked her lips as tears fell down from her eyes and onto the floor, "You'll ruin me, and I..."

She had told him she loved him.

_Hadn't she?_

Long years prickled on her lips, but all she could manage was a sob as Antonio brushed her tears away with the pad of his thumb. He held her, closely, swinging her to the distant music from the party.

"I wish I'd done everything on earth with you," She pleaded quietly, "All my life. I wish it could be always like this. I don't- I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back-"

"It can," He promised, gripping the sides of her face harshly as she gave him a confused look, "You need to... I'll make it happen."

"You live in a delusion." She whispered, eyes searching his as she drew her hands up and wrapped her fingers around the palms that Antonio pressed onto her face.

"And you'll live with me in it," He answered, surely and confidently.

"I'm married, you fool." She laughed, "We haven't met for years, and now you're back and-"

"Divorce him." Antonio commanded, kissing at her neck.

She gasped and gripped his shoulders.

"I- I can't, you don't know how-"

"I love you." He blurted and drew back to look at her. She swallowed thickly.

"Shouldn't this be enough for you?" She continued, "Isn't this enough?"

"Never." He answered, and kissed her, hard and long. His lips were chapped and they slid over hers as she clawed at his shoulders, and was pushed back to lean against the gates of Gilbert's house once more, the strap of her dress falling with the motion. Antonio drew back, and stared at her, using his thumb to brush a stray hair out of his face.

She gave him a confused look as she realised that it would never be enough for him, just to hold her. He had a grand vision in his life and her part in it was essential, ever-lasting, and permanent, and one-sided, which Antonio could never understand or even begin to accept.

Ever.

:::

Arthur announced his return to Francis' manor through a pathetic, sulking and aching knock on the door, weeks later, and it was autumn once more. The sky was dark and grey.

It was raining again.

"Hello," Arthur said, completely drenched, "I'm... I'm back."

"Are you?" Francis folded his arms and leaned onto the door frame.

"Yes," Arthur settled on, back straight, "I... am. I am."

"Truly?" Francis smiled as Arthur shrugged. Curiously, he moved and allowed Arthur to shyly step inside, body swaying slightly.

"I'm drunk," Arthur frowned at him over his shoulder, "Come on."

"What should I do?" Francis teased, shutting the door behind him.

"I want you," Arthur walked towards Francis, leaning up to whisper in his ear, "I do not _need_ you. I merely want you."

"You are a beautiful liar, Arthur," Francis hushed, brushing a stray hair behind Arthur's ear, "What will I do without you?"

"You'd find someone else," Arthur voiced as Francis trailed a hand over his waist and under his shirt, across his back. He hissed as he touched the wound. "You always do, don't you?"

"Oh, Arthur," Francis said, muffled by Arthur's neck as he licked over the skin, wet from rain, "You always are full of words."

"I am a writer," Arthur gasped, "I always have been."

Francis growled lowly at the noise, inching his hand over Arthur's back and over its scars and freckles to cup the back of his head, harshly, fingers tangled in his hair as he brought their lips mere millimetres apart, breath hot. He crashed their mouths together roughly, more teeth and tongue than gentle, fleeting touches.

It was never loving.

Francis slid his hand down Arthur's back once more, heat thrumming against his fingers, lips salty with sweat and slick. With a certain anger, he pushed Arthur back against the corridor wall, watching Arthur spread his palms over the wallpaper and grasping at it, holding onto it as though it were the only stability he had in his life.

Perhaps it was.

Mouths recaptured, Francis rubbed against him, desperately, feeling Arthur hit his hips against the wall as Francis ground further up to him, bodies aligned.

He could taste the alcohol on Arthur's breath.

"No one, no one will...," Francis gasped breathlessly as he tore his lips away from Arthur's open mouth, "_Arthur_."

Arthur frowned in response, tilting his head back and looking at him coolly as Francis slid his hand around to grasp at Arthur's trousers, pressed and damp from the rain, tugging them down to his thighs. His cock rose to meet Francis' palm as Francis panted onto Arthur's collarbone, unbuttoning his own trousers to align his cock with Arthur's, a practiced motion as he moved his hand, hard and fast. Francis groaned loudly and hitching his hips in a shameful manner, allowing for Arthur's entire body to move up and down with each of Francis' upwards thrusts against Arthur. Arthur would feel his head hit the wallpaper.

His blood pounded in his ears and his muscles flexed. Eyes tightly shut, Francis finished with a sob.

_Fool_.

He slowed his movements, letting Arthur fall numbly against the wallpaper.

Watching Arthur with a pained expression, he buttoned his trousers once more and let his hands fall to his sides.

Arthur's eyes stung. His head back against the wall, he stared up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"Did Jones ask about me?" Arthur asked, despite himself.

"Jones?" Francis scoffed, "Why, he completely disappeared. No more parties, it seems."

"... I see."

Francis nodded, and wrapped his hand around Arthur's waist once more. Arthur's eyes burnt and stung.

"Why do you care about Jones?" Francis mumbled, thumb grazing a stray tear away on Arthur's cheeks, skin soft.

"It's _Alfred_," Arthur said, voice breaking, "He isn't _Jones_. His name is Alfred F. Jones, and that is the beginning of everything."


	5. Chapter 5

Act IV

September.

_Before_

It was when curiosity about the lack of Jones' appearance in the city that the lights in his house failed to go on yet again on Saturday night. As obscurely as the spectacle had begun, it seemed as though his career as a popular human being ended in the transition of summer to the last and hottest days in New York.

"Is Mr. Jones sick?" Michelle asked to the unfamiliar butler who had answered her persistent knocking on Jones' door.

"No," He answered, villainous face squinting, "Madam." He added, in a dilatory, grudging manner.

"I haven't seen him for a while, are you sure?" She questioned, "Is he out of town or somethin'?"

"He's here, sure," The butler shrugged.

"Listen," Michelle said, "You tell him that Miss Mancham came over."

"Who?" He demanded.

"Mancham," She repeated.

"Mancham," He moved slowly, "All right, I'll tell him." Abruptly, he slammed the door, causing a small gust of wind to make the scatter of leaves on Jones' doorstep rise and dance around Michelle.

:::

The next day was boiling, and it was most certainly the warmest day in September, perhaps one of the warmest in all of summer. Through the halls of Michelle's house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Arthur and Francis as they waited at the door.

"Gosh," Michelle roared into the mouthpiece, "When can you come over? Today? I think you oughta, we'll have a ball, and you can forget about the whole ordeal!"

The butler came towards Arthur and Francis, glistening slightly, and taking Francis' unnecessary and exterior straw hat with an outstretched arm.

"Madame expects you in the salon," He instructed, needlessly indicating the direction. The room, shadowed from the midday sun, was dark and cool, surprisingly so. With a sigh, Francis sat himself down on the enormous couch, upon which Emma was neatly propped, weighing down her white dress against the singing breeze of the fans, placed in every imaginable corner of the room.

"It's hot today," She drawled.

"Isn't it?" Francis nodded.

Arthur, in the centre of the crimson carpet, gazed around with fascinated eyes, before moving and pouring a drink.

"Make me a cold drink, too," Francis smiled, hand placed calmly on Emma's shoulder, who eyed him with disapproval.

"Do it yourself," Arthur replied, and Francis laughed a little, it was a cruel sound, taunting him. He drowned his glass as Francis lit a cigarette.

Simultaneously, a clear voice erupted as Michelle opened the doors with a swift movement, bursting inside and smiling brightly.

"You'll never guess who's here!" She said, creating a sweet, exciting laugh, from deep inside her throat.

Moving to the side, a body blocked out the space of the door for a moment, before curiously stepping inside, uncritically so.

"Mr. Jones!" Emma sprung from the couch.

Arthur could feel his glass slipping from his fingers before, with a clear sound, it hit the floor.

"_Oh_," cried Michelle, "It's no matter, Arthur. Freddie!" She called the butler, "Fix this up, will you?"

"Mr. Jones," Francis slowly stood, "I'm glad to see you, and so soon." He put out his broad, flat hand with a well-concealed dislike.

"'So soon'?" Emma said with a lopsided smiled, "It feels like years. No more parties... Whatever happened?"

Alfred shrugged, eyes focused on the shining, hardwood floor.

Michelle clapped her hands together as she spoke, "How about a drink? Freddie, make us some cool drinks."

In silence, the butler fixed each guest a glass, and, with visible tension, each drank in long, greedy swallows. Shyly, Arthur averted himself to a desolated corner of the room, leaning against the wall and frowning as Francis crowded around him, whispering nonsense words and promises, spat as though they were threats, in his ear and grabbing his wrist. Alfred watched him, with a pained expression and his mouth was a tight, white line, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked.

Arthur wasn't breathing, not anymore.

Not in the moment Francis turned his head, slowly, and followed Arthur's gaze to meet Alfred's shining, blue eyes.

"I read somewhere," Francis said as he let Arthur go, "That the sun is getting hotter every year."

"Is it really?" Emma asked, cynically, as she fiddled with her pearl necklace.

"Yes," He smiled, stepping closer to Alfred as Arthur tried to light a cigarette.

His hands were shaking.

With swift steps, Alfred crossed the room, and stilled Arthur's hands, placing his fingers over Arthur's own, hot and sticking and sweaty. In one movement, he lit the cigarette, and Arthur trailed his eyes to fixate Alfred's own once more, and for a brief moment, Alfred seemed as though he wanted to say a million things, but forgot how to speak.

The only sound in the room was the clinking of Emma's beads as her fingers tangled across them, and Francis' heaving breaths as he stood, helplessly, in the centre of the room.

"Let's all go to town!" Michelle's voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms, "Who wants to go to town?" She insisted.

"Yes," Francis spat, "Why not?"

"It's too hot," Emma said, "It's too damn hot."

With an effort, Arthur pushed Alfred away and walked towards the centre of the room once more.

Alfred's eyes floated towards him once more.

"Ah," Arthur said, hoarsely, "You look so cool."

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other, alone in space.

"You always look so cool," Arthur repeated, eyes focused on Alfred and Alfred alone.

He had told him he loved him, and Francis Bonnefoy saw.

He was astounded.

Emma stopped fiddling with her necklace.

Francis' mouth opened a little, she observed, staring at Jones, then back at Arthur, as though he had recognised him as a person he had known a long time ago.

"All right," Francis said, quickly, "Come on, we're all going to town."

No one moved.

"Come on!" He repeated, "If we want to go to town, let's go."

"Oh, let's just have fun," Michelle begged him, hand firm on his arm, "It's too hot to fuss."

With a swift movement, he rattled her grip.

"Let's go to town," Francis insisted, "Let's go right now."

:::

Outside, Arthur watched Alfred shuffle pebbles with his feet, drawing nonsense patters.

"I don't understand this idea of going to the city," Alfred said with a smile, "I mean, isn't it hotter in town than here?"

"We said that we would like to go to town," Francis said, voice strained with underlying temper, "The ladies insisted, it is polite to comply."

"Well," Alfred laughed, "It was more _your_ doing-"

"Hey," Michelle called from an upper window, "Do you want anything to drink? Francis, fetch some whiskey! You know where it is. Tell Freddie to wrap it up."

Francis nodded, mutely, and with a final sharp stare to Arthur, he went inside.

Rigidly, Alfred turned to Arthur.

"I...," He started, before he exhaled in defeat and dug his hands in his pockets, biting his lips. He sighed.

"I know..." Arthur said, carefully, "I know what you must think of me."

"What?"

"I can't say anything to him," Arthur spoke, voice pained, "He's... He has this..."

"Do you like him?" Alfred asked.

"No," Arthur remarked, laughing dryly, "Not at all."

"Not at all?"

"Not in the slightest," Arthur answered.

"Then why stay with him?" Alfred asked.

"Well," Arthur sighed, "I'm wretched, and ruined, absolutely ruined, and it'd be-"

"No. You're not," Alfred frowned, staring up at the sky in a rather childish manner, "I think you're not. Listen, we-"

"It's dangerous to seek comfort in other people," Arthur finished, frowning at Alfred.

Francis came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Michelle and Emma.

"We can all fit in my car," Alfred suggested.

"That's silly," Arthur suddenly intercepted, "I'll go with you, and Francis will drive the girls."

"Wonderful," Emma said, feeling the hot leather of Francis' seat, "You should have left it in the shade." She raised an eyebrow to him.

Francis gave Arthur an indefinable expression, at one definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognisable, as if it had only ever been described in words.

"It's hot," He said, "Come on." Francis trailed a hand over the car, and as he pushed the gears tentatively, eying Alfred, who grinned brightly at the giggling Michelle and waved as Arthur shifted in his seat and smiled sharply, too.

With a roar, Alfred was first to shoot off into the oppressive heat, tires squelching on Michelle's gravel.

Arthur stared at Alfred for a long moment as the sun shone brightly on his hair, wild in the wind. Alfred swallowed, laughing nervously as he eyed Arthur briefly, before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

"I heard that you went away," Alfred said loudly over the engine with a lopsided smile, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.

"Yes, I did." Arthur replied, "Briefly," He added, "I just... I wanted to get away."

Alfred laughed, it was strained and hollow.

"Yeah," He nodded, "I can imagine. I mean, staying a whole summer with Francis must be...," He searched for words, biting his lip nervously, "Over-bearing, I guess."

Arthur blinked at him.

"Indeed," Arthur said lowly in the tense heat. For a moment, he wanted to explain, he wanted to continue, he wanted Alfred to _understand_\- Yet the immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of vulnerability and theoretical happiness.

"Summer's almost over," Alfred said, loudly, eying Arthur once more, watching him slump in his seat against the car door and stretch his arms out, fingers dancing and flexed, as though he was reaching for something in the distance, something unobtainable.

"Yes," He mumbled, eyes half-mast and voice lazy from the heat.

"What...," Alfred asked, shyly, "What will you do? After summer, that is. Will you... Will you go home? Back to Europe?"

"I don't know," Arthur said, earnestly, "It... depends." He finished, cautiously.

"On what?"

Slowly, Arthur turned his body to face Alfred, and carefully, he opened his eyes.

"On a lot of things," He said, "What matter is it to you? None of this is of any concern to you."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred finished, inhaling a shaky breath and scratching at the steering wheel, straitening his spine and looking at Arthur consciously.

Arthur smiled slowly,

"You say the funniest things," Alfred said.

"So do you," He replied, laughing.

"No, you do," Alfred contradicted, "Remember those things you said in the hotel?" Alfred frowned. "Would you really, though?" Alfred asked, and swallowed thickly, "Kill yourself, I mean."

"Perhaps," Arthur mumbled, casually.

"It'd be a shame, if you did," Alfred said, harshly.

Arthur laughed dryly. "In a few years, none of this will matter, Alfred," He said, "Just you wait and see. You'll forget about me, and Francis, and Michelle and everyone," He sighed, staring up at the moving sky, "You'll move on."

Alfred stared at him, eyes haunted as Arthur looked forward, coolly, and he discovered that perhaps Arthur had some sort of life apart from this one, here and now, in another world, and the shock had made him physically sick. His throat constricted.

"No, I won't." Alfred voiced, lips compressed in a tight, white line once more. He had no consciousness of being observed by Arthur, and slowly, one emotion after another crept onto his face like objects in a slowly developing picture, one frame after another, as Alfred helplessly attempted to form coherent thoughts in his head. It was difficult, in the heat, and the proximity of Arthur, right _here_, was suffocating. As Alfred locked eyes with Arthur, he turned away, quickly, and stared relentlessly out of the window once more. Alfred watched Arthur lick his lips, and his expression was curiously familiar to him, it seemed purposeless and inexplicable and _familiar_, oddly so.

Alfred coughed in the silence, and instinct made him step on the accelerator with the purpose of leaving Francis' coupé behind, as they sped along towards the city and over the bridge, among the spidery girders. Several times he turned his head and looked back for Francis' car.

:::

The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already past four in the afternoon, opening the windows only admitted a gust of hot air from the city.

"It's a swell suite," Whispered Emma respectfully, and Michelle laughed.

"It's hot," Arthur said, tensely standing to pour a drink. Francis stared at him.

"The best thing to do is to forget about the heat," Emma said, "It's worse if you complain about it, I heard."

Arthur unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table. Alfred exclaimed a long 'Hm!' in an interested way as he stood and fetched a glass, too. Furrowing his brow in annoyance, Arthur poured him a drink, too.

"Why don't we call up and order some ice?" Michelle said with a bright smile.

"Yes, let's," Arthur drawled around his drink, sitting on the window sill. The word beat in Alfred's ears with a sort of heady excitement as he crossed his legs and leaned back on the sofa.

"The city is very hot," Francis said as Michelle sprang towards the mirror to fix her hair, "Perhaps it was a mistake to come here."

"It was your idea," Arthur hissed.

"The heat makes you irritable, darling," Francis laughed dryly.

"Now, see here, Francis," Michelle replied, turning around from the mirror, "If you're going to make personal remarks, I won't stay here a minute. Call up some ice, why don't you?"

Francis took up the receiver and briefly spoke into the telephone.

Intermittent cries of 'Yea-ea-ea!' sounded from the room below, resulting in a burst of jazz as surely, dancing began.

Emma fiddled with her necklace.

"We're getting old," She said, "In my younger and more vulnerable years, I'd rise and dance."

"Oh, I'd love to dance!" Michelle exclaimed.

"Would you?" Francis mumbled, lighting a cigarette, "It's too hot."

"Maybe you're right," She laughed, "Listen, did you ever hear about Bill Jackie? Do you know him? _Great_ sport. I was in Chicago last summer, and he _fainted_, right in the middle of a Charleston. _He did!_ I suppose it didn't matter," She snorted, "He was a _swell_ dancer."

It was silent.

Alfred's foot beat a short, restless rhythm, and Arthur eyed it, eyes sharp and glinting in the sun. Alfred's hair seemed golden in the light, as shining as his car, Arthur though.

A waiter knocked and entered with crushed ice, the silence unbroken by his cautious 'Thank you' and soft closing of the door.

"I understand that you're from the Midwest," Francis asked Alfred.

"Yeah," Alfred smiled, "That's right."

"How can you afford to create your wonderful pictures?" Francis leered, "I am merely curious."

"Well, I worked hard. I did odd jobs and moved to California when I could," He said.

"Ah," Francis nodded, "Those must have been extensive jobs."

"I inherited some money, too," Alfred continued politely, "My brother works in the stock market, so he could invest it wisely. See, I don't know a thing about money."

"Oh, me too," Michelle said and rose, smiling faintly, "I only know how to spend it!"

Emma scoffed.

"I have one more question, Mr. Jones-" Francis said lightly.

"Why don't you call me Alfred?" Alfred replied.

"No," Francis laughed, "That would be unprofessional, would it not? I do not know much about you," He said, "And you know nothing about us."

"Look, I don't really-" Alfred said, with a lopsided, child-like smile.

"We know nothing about you, not _really_," Francis continued and shot sceptical look towards Alfred, who remained frozen and clueless.

"You throw large parties and have grand houses, and you work in _films_?" Francis laughed, "How can you afford it? I have never seen any picture of yours, you are not a celebrity, you...," He paused, "What kind of a row are you even trying to cause in our lives," Francis said, standing and eying Alfred, brows furrowing, "_Mr. Jones_?"

"He isn't causing a row," Arthur said and moved towards him, resting his drink on the window sill, "You're being ridiculous."

Michelle looked desperately from one man to the next.

"_You're_ causing a row." Arthur challenged, jutting his chin up at Francis.

"I am?" Francis repeated incredulously.

"Yes," He hissed, "You always have. No one likes you, Francis. Not _really_, do they?" He watched Francis heave shallow breaths, "I hate you."

"Oh, Arthur," Francis laughed, "That is the opposite of what you-"

"Please, don't!" Michelle interrupted helplessly, "Please, let's all go home. Why don't we all go home?"

"That's a good idea," Emma stood, "Let's leave. Come on, Arthur," She said sternly.

"Okay," Alfred said quietly, "Yeah."

Francis remained frozen.

Arthur mutely turned his back and returned to stare out the window.

_Within_-

"You and Alfred have been getting on rather well, haven't you?" Francis asked, loudly.

_And without._

His back tensed, visibly.

"I think so," Francis said, "I remember what you told me, and what you did-"

"Arthur, come on. You... Can't you... Francis... He doesn't-" Michelle intercepted, hastily, before stepping back and understanding that, yet again, she said too much, and too little.

"I remember it." Francis stepped closer, "I remember everything. I remember the war, I remember it very well-"

Arthur threw his glass at Francis.

It shattered after hitting the wall behind him.

"Why can't you see that he never-" Michelle pleaded to Francis,

"I want to know what Mr. Jones has to tell me." Francis said.

"I'm sorry?" Alfred asked, cautiously.

"Do you love Arthur?" Francis leered.

"That doesn't matter!" Arthur shouted, "Alfred," He added, warningly, "Don't you dare say a word."

"What?" Alfred stuttered, eying Francis, "What... What the hell are you even saying?"

"Arthur doesn't love you," Francis said, "Do you know that? He loves me."

"You're mad!" Arthur screamed, voice breaking, breaths coming short as he stood, helplessly.

Alfred sprang to his feet, vivid with anger and hatred and excitement.

"You're... Arthur... You better leave him alone," Alfred shouted to Francis, voice shaking, "He's leaving you."

"Nonsense!" Francis replied.

"I am, though!" Arthur spat, chest heaving.

"No, no, no," Francis said calmly, "You say that, but you must... Surely you see... This is Mr. Jones. He's _American_," Francis laughed rapidly, "You'll forget about him, and he'll forget about you."

"You're revolting." Arthur spat.

It was silent once more.

He said and turned to Alfred, voice dropping an octave lower, "This... This isn't... This isn't about you."

Alfred swallowed thickly as his pulse raced. The fire that was brewing beneath him was enflamed by Arthur, and all of Arthur, all that he understood and wanted Arthur to be- _His_.

From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords drifted into the silence.

"This has nothing to do you with you-" Arthur continued.

"_This has everything to do you me!_" Alfred voiced, loudly. Arthur retracted at the noise.

"How do you think this makes me feel?" Alfred said, "You're all crazy! All of you! I just... Damn it," He ran a hand through his hair and pushed up his glassed, turning his back to Arthur, "You're all-"

"I suppose it was a mistake to give a damn about you," Arthur said, "But I did," His voice was cold, the rancour was gone from it, "How careless of me."

His hand as he tried to light a cigarette was trembling.

"Oh," Alfred said helplessly after a pause, "Okay."

Arthur's eyes fluttered as they met Alfred's own, glazed from the heat.

"Please, Mr. Jones," Francis interrupted savagely, "Do not be inane. There are things between us that you'll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget. Is that not true, Arthur?"

Arthur ground his teeth.

The words seemed to physically bite Alfred.

"I hate you," Arthur said in the low voice, with visible effort, "I hate you, I truly do-"

"You say these things, but you don't-" Francis said, walking towards him.

"I don't need you," Arthur shouted, reaching out towards Francis firmly tangling his fingers inside his shirt, shaking his body as he spat, "I don't need anyone!"

It was silent, briefly, before Francis exhaled sharply.

"You are leaving me, then?" He said, "Truly?"

"Yes," He answered. His words suddenly leaned down over Alfred.

"You're leaving me," Francis repeated, "For... Who are you, anyhow?" He spat, eyes concentrated on Alfred and Alfred alone, who glanced at Arthur, who stared terrified back.

With every word, it was as though Arthur was drawing himself further and further away from Francis' grip. The dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily and toward Arthur's lost voice, chocking vowels and empty consonants, across the room.

"I can't stand this anymore," Arthur whispered to Alfred, "I can't."

His eyes were hollow and the green reflected Alfred himself as he moved towards him, slowly, with whatever courage he had remaining. Nodding slowly, he hushed, 'Okay, yeah. Okay,' in a manner he hoped was reassuring.

"I see," Francis said, struggling on the words, "I see,"

"What do you see?" Michelle asked, cautiously, after a long pause.

"Everything," He answered as he picked up his jacket in the silence and left, closing the door slowly behind him.

Alarmed, and a little uncertain, Arthur held his breath in the tense, uneasy air of the room.

After a moment, Emma stood, and poured herself a drink.

"Want any of this? Arthur?" She asked, "... Arthur?"

He remained silent.

"Arthur?" She asked once more, "Want any?"

"No," He said, slowly, "I merely... I... Is this..."

"He's gone, isn't he?" Alfred asked, expression shockingly serious, "Real gone?"

"Yes," Michelle exhaled, "I think so. All this talk about love," She swallowed, "Only... He's gone, but... He's dramatic, especially when it's about Arthur, I know he'll... Calm down," She said, "Let him get used to the idea of being without you, I guess," She told Arthur.

The words were accidental, isolated, as though they were ghosts from her pity.

"I... Let's leave," Alfred said, "I'll drive you home."

"Oh," Arthur said, "Yes. I still... I'll go back," He inhaled a shaky breath, "To Francis,"

"Just for the night," He added, upon observing the horrid expression on each person's face, "I suppose."

"Good," Michelle said hastily, "You can stay with me, or with Alfred, I'm sure. There's... There's no need to go back, Arthur."

"Right," Arthur finished, coughing in the silence as Emma led them out of the room with proud steps, "But I... I'll sort things out, and... That'll be that."

Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle could observe Arthur gradually lean towards Alfred, walking flush beside him as Alfred smiled, uneasily, and trailed a hand over his neck, and around to rest against his cheek, fingers curling over the skin. Arthur fluttered his eyes, and smiled, slowly, as Alfred laughed breathily, chest heaving. The tentative smile he gave Arthur made his throat constrict and chest tighten.

Michelle made no sound, and what she had remembered, a fragment of the tycoon that was Alfred F. Jones, was incommunicable forever.


	6. Chapter 6

Act V

September.

_During_

In the deep night, Alfred drove fast, the stars above melting into streaks of silver and white against the dark sky, as though he were fleeing from the city and everything he connected to it. Arthur leaned back in his seat as he stared at it, and marvelled, yet again, how much faster everything seemed to become when he was with Alfred F. Jones— This hybrid, this mix of a man who could not contain himself.

Alfred grinned, brilliantly, and, with a sharp movement, turned the car towards Francis' estate. As he shifted the gears with a final sigh, he turned to smile at Arthur, once more, and was dazed when he observed that Arthur smiled too, tentatively yet certain.

"You'll... You'll be okay, won't you?" Alfred asked anxiously as Arthur jumped out of the car.

"Yes, of course I will," Arthur said, watching Alfred open the door and move to stand beside him, "You'd better go home and get some sleep." He said, smiling nervously as Alfred shyly licked his lips.

"I'd... You know I'd..," He stammered, "If you'd... If you'd want me to stay and wait or something— I'd do that."

"You would?"

"Yeah," Alfred said, "Is that bad?"

"No, not at all," Arthur said quickly, "I thought... After all of this... I thought you'd want to leave."

"Why would I want to leave?"

Arthur shrugged.

It was silent for a few beats.

"I'm really glad that I met you," Alfred said, "At my party."

"So am I," Arthur replied. Alfred shifted his weight on his feet.

"Okay, right—Okay. You can...," Alfred began, "You can come whenever you like, okay?"

He tried to convince himself that it was alright to leave, that Arthur was here, right _here_, and-

"Yes," Arthur hushed, slightly amused as he stepped closer. Alfred leaned down and raised a hand to brush lightly over Arthur's cheek.

Pulse fluttering, Alfred whispered, "This isn't a dream,"

"I know," Arthur said, breath hot on Alfred's lips. He gripped Alfred's shoulders, lacing a hand into his hair, and pulled him down, closing the small gap between them and kissing him so softly it hurt, merely for a few beats of Alfred's erratic heart. Arthur's lips felt just the way Alfred remembered—Chapped, and dry yet remarkably soft, softer than expected.

He wanted to feel them again—He wanted to feel them every day for the rest of his life.

"Goodnight—And thank you." Arthur said, retreating before Alfred could even hold him, wrap his arms around his back and waist and neck and force him to stay and pull him closer, always closer.

"What for?" Alfred asked as Arthur walked away. He smiled at him shyly over his shoulder, as though Alfred should know the answer, and left him standing there in the moonlight.

Alfred was dazed for minutes. He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back hesitantly to his car, biting his lips absentmindedly.

:::

Arthur was alone in the house.

Francis had packed and left.

Arthur couldn't sleep all night—A fog-horn was groaning incessantly and he tossed, half-sick between the grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams he fought since the end of the war. Towards dawn he jumped out of bed and began to dress, feeling that he had something to tell one Alfred F. Jones, something to warn him about, and that in the morning would be too late.

He didn't know why he left— He still did not comprehend as he closed the front door with a slam and ran down the marble stairs, jumping into the car without opening the door. He drove, fast, eyes concentrated on the road, and he felt more alive than he had in years.

It was dawn now on Long Island, and the windows began to open, filling the house with grey-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly bird began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.

Alfred opened the door, slowly, and he stood awkwardly gaping at Arthur for a long moment, arms pressed to the door and leaning against its frame. His fingers fought not to touch Arthur. He wanted to run his hand through his hair, to see if his fingers would get caught and stroke a finger down his cheek, see if it felt as he remembered—Soft and warm and comforting and oddly familiar. For a moment, it seemed as though Alfred would leave or implode or collapse.

Mutely, he opened the door further and let Arthur walk inside, following him numbly to his living room, grand as ever in the light of dawn.

"I know it's late," Arthur said.

"Early, really," Alfred replied.

Alfred stared at Arthur. Arthur stubbornly averted his eyes.

Arthur inhaled a long breath. "I didn't know if you'd want to see me," He said.

"I told you I did." Alfred answered, "See... You know... I always... I still want to see you, even at four in the morning."

Arthur watched him.

The corners of his lips twitched, and slowly, they curled up into a smile.

Arthur was beautiful when he was happy, Alfred thought.

"I don't... I don't know why I came here," Arthur admitted, laughing breathily. Alfred blinked. It felt strange, seeing him here, in the early morning light, and for a moment, it felt as though he had never seen him before, or remembered him from very long ago. It was odd to see Arthur here, in his own home, in the early morning, alone, standing here without alcohol or a cigarette, in the dim light, without Emma or Michelle or Francis, without anyone other than himself. He was utterly devoid of the mystique and magic of his words and his unfamiliarity which vanished into the morning light in a single, breathy laugh and smile.

It was ordinary.

It was familiar and normal.

He could see the shape of Arthur's jaw and nose and eyelashes, illuminated by the dawn's early light, clearly, and suddenly, he understood that it was with the same clarity that in strange gust, his entire life was unaffected by everything other than Arthur.

Arthur eyed him.

"What is it?" He asked. There was a familiar hostility edging his voice that Alfred did not know he missed until now.

"Nothing, I'm just...," Alfred said, "I'm glad you're here."

Arthur shifted his weight on his feet, and for a brief moment, Alfred was afraid he would leave.

He didn't.

"Is this it, then?" Arthur breathed.

"What... What did you think it would be like?" Alfred answered.

He was suddenly convinced that Arthur would leave once more as he felt his chest grow tight.

"I don't know," Arthur said.

Alfred nodded, mutely. "See, I—I always thought that I'd have to do something... Something crazy—Really _crazy_ to... To prove that I lo—" Alfred said, cheeks aflame. His eyes were trailed on the floor.

"You don't," Arthur said. Alfred shot his eyes up to look at him. Arthur could feel his own face heat up, yet he refused to tear his gaze away. Alfred seemed so _hopeful_. "It's fine," Arthur finished, quickly, "You don't have to do anything—"

He swallowed thickly.

He defeated the urge to say more than was needed.

"Good," Alfred said, exhaling a breath he did not realise he was holding, "I'm glad. I just—I like being with you, I like seeing you here, and... I..."

Arthur stared at him.

"You know—You don't have to promise anything to me," Alfred said and licked his lips.

Arthur did not move.

He did not blink.

"Are you— Will you leave?" Alfred asked.

Arthur watched Alfred for a long moment.

"Maybe," He said, "I don't know yet. I can't stand it— I can't do this anymore."

"Yeah— I get it."

They stared.

Breathed.

"They're a rotten crowd," Alfred voiced, uncharacteristically loud in the silence, "All of them— You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."

Alfred had a look in his eyes that made Arthur's throat constrict and his pulse race rapidly.

Arthur needed words.

He looked at Alfred, at Alfred looking at him, his eyelashes fluttering, and suddenly, Arthur believed him, all of his lies, his beautiful, beautiful lies and hopes and dreams— They shaped themselves into the words he needed all along.

"I'll stay."

Arthur breathed and listened to his heart beat rapidly.

Alfred remained frozen.

Arthur stared at him, and for a long moment, Alfred stared back, before in a rapid motion, he stepped forward, palms on either side of his face and pressing into his cheeks, painfully so. He quickly seizing Arthur's lips with his own, and Arthur blossomed in front of him like a flower, pushing towards him as he ran his hands through Alfred's hair and pushed him nearer to Arthur. Alfred's hands did not still—He moved from trailing his fingers over Arthur's face and arms down to brushing his broad palms on Arthur's hip bones, sharp and angular, his hold on his tighter and harsher than ever before, surely to leave a bruise. Alfred pushed his tongue forward, sloppily, there was to rhythm, and Arthur opened his mouth to him, hot and wet, as he tilted his head slightly, leaning closer and always closer to Alfred.

"You're—You're staying," Alfred whispered in disbelief over his lips and Arthur stared at him, long and hard. Alfred could feel his hot and wet breath on his lips.

"Yes." He said hastily, and dove in again, mouthing against Alfred's lips, "Yes— _Yes_."

After a long moment, they broke free once more.

Alfred was bright red, it seemed, his face was flushed. His hair shun in the early morning light. To Arthur, he looked like an angel— God-like, supreme, infinite, impossible, even.

Alfred laughed, it was harmonious and a little strained and it seemed misplaced to the nervous jittering rhythm in his heart and the tension in his chest. Arthur smiled back, too, and suddenly, Alfred's head was simultaneously cleared and more hazed than ever before.

He felt drunk on the idea that he caused Arthur to smile.

Alfred thumbed at Arthur's hips before he raised hand and trailed his fingers over Arthur's face, down his jaw, before pressing his palm against Arthur's cheek. Arthur's eyes fluttered up to stare at him, eyelids hooded and his eyes seemed darker than before and deeper too, and Alfred felt as though he were drowning in them.

His breath was shaking, Arthur could feel it on his face, it fluttered over his entire body, as Alfred moved the hand on Arthur's hipbone down to his thigh, feeling Arthur inhale a sharp breath and tighten the hold on Alfred's shoulders.

"God—_Arthur_," Alfred moaned, words elongated and hoarse.

Arthur groaned lowly in his throat and dug his nails into Alfred's thin shirt, grasping at his shoulders before firmly pulling Alfred down by the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and kissing him once more. Alfred mumbled senseless words against his mouth, letting Arthur lick at his teeth and tongue, breath hot and heavy.

"Oh, _fuck_—" Alfred stumbled as Arthur slid a leg between Alfred's own, pushing up against him and pulling him even closer, chests flush.

"Hey," He managed around Arthur's teeth as they chewed on his bottom lip, swollen and flushed, "I—_God_, _Arthur_—Fucking—_Wait_." He stammered. Arthur pulled away, abruptly.

He frowned.

"What is it?" He asked, and his voice rough, too, Alfred noticed.

"I—It's just," Alfred blushed and averted his eyes, "This is—Listen, let me—"

Arthur blinked.

"Yeah," He said, "I—Of course," He retraced himself from Alfred abruptly, "I—I wasn't—"

"Hey," Alfred whispered, and stepped towards Arthur once more, hands hovering helplessly around Arthur. His skin felt cold now, yet too hot at the same time—Warm and sizzling and electric at all the points where Arthur's own fingers trailed and nails scratched mere minutes again.

"Arthur," Alfred said, "I—I didn't mean it that way," He swallowed thickly, "We should—Move." He settled on, "Upstairs." He nodded, smiling nervously.

Arthur let out a breath he did not know he was holding.

"We don't have to go upstairs," He said, "We can—The sofa." He finished, and felt rather stupid for pointing out the obvious existence of the furniture behind them, yet his worries were forgotten when Alfred smiled, brightly, and backed Arthur up against it. The wooden leg hit his ankles and he laughed, breathlessly, as Alfred threw him down onto the sofa, crawling over him, and grinning, running his palms over his chest and down to his stomach.

"Is this—Is this okay?" Alfred asked.

Arthur licked his lips. "Yes," He said after a moment, voice remarkably quiet.

"Good," Alfred replied in a whisper, "I—I'm really—_Damn_." He leaned his forehead against Arthur's as Arthur toyed with the fine hairs at the back of Alfred's neck, and looked down deep into Arthur's eyes. It was slower and more romantic than intended, Alfred supposed, yet it seemed that Arthur understood all the words he could not say and all the emotions he could not convey, as he stared up at Alfred and smiled. Arthur looked it in the way all people wanted to be looked at—He seemed to believe in Alfred more than he believed in himself. It was a strange vulnerability that Arthur exposed to himself in that single moment, for Alfred was being looked at as though he were wonderful, simply wonderful, and as though Arthur would want to do nothing other than stay here in Alfred's arms for the rest of his life.

Alfred leaned forward and kissed him, slowly sliding his lips against his own before pressing his tongue into Arthur's mouth. Arthur opened his mouth to him and arched up against him as he slowly pulled his shirt up and trailed his nails against Arthur's skin. Arthur inhaled a sharp breath through his nose before pulling away.

"I—Wait," He stammered, "I should tell you... During—During the war—I was burnt, there was gas and..."

"There was gas?" Alfred prompted, face and tone littered with worry.

Arthur nodded and looked up slowly. "And guns," He paused, "I was shot at and—And burned."

"_Oh_," Alfred breathed, "I'm sorry, did I hurt you? I wasn't thinking—Listen we can stop right now—"

"No," Arthur hurried, "The wound— It healed, but...," He swallowed thickly, "I was scarred—Badly."

Alfred felt a stab of pain in his chest after the tingling shock of utter relief and surprise and horror. He nodded, slowly, and gently removed his hand from Arthur's lower torso before reaching once more under his shirt.

"Alfred—" Arthur warned with apprehension.

Alfred slowly raised his hand over Arthur's skin, hot and slick with sweat, before he unbuttoned the shirt and pushed it away all together. For a moment, he was immobile, staring silently at Arthur. His heart raced. There was red and white scar tissue covering his chest, raised and carved, little and small, irregular patterns over his muscles, reaching from his upper arm to his shoulder and chest, down to the stomach, too. Alfred blinked rapidly. He should have been revolted, yet Alfred could not possibly be revolted by any part of Arthur

"I'm sorry." He said, and his heart ached with the idea that Arthur was vulnerable, he was broken—And Alfred felt as though he were drunk, drunk on the idea that he could heal him, heal his brokenness, and that Arthur could heal him, too.

"What are you apologising for?" Arthur stared at him.

"I'm sorry that—" Alfred stammered, inching closer to Arthur once more, "I'm sorry—I just—It makes me sad—"

"I—" Arthur interrupted, "I understand if... If you don't—"

Alfred took his hand. His palm covered Arthur's own entirely.

"You're the most goddamn beautiful thing in the entire world."

Arthur frowned at him, staring at him still, as though he was searching for an answer in Alfred to an unasked question. Alfred grinned once more, and Arthur felt almost insulted that he had the capacity for blinding happiness in their current positions, so he pushed up against him, their bodies mirroring each other. Alfred groaned, loudly, and Arthur pulled at Alfred's hair before kissing him, hard, teeth clashing painfully. Alfred was breathing heavily through his nose, Arthur could feel it on his cheeks, and his own lungs screamed for air, yet he could not pull away, not yet—Not when Alfred was here, right _here_, and not with the way he was running his hands over Arthur's spine and down to the small of his back, before squeezing his behind, blindly so with misplaced certainty. Arthur arched towards his touch, and wrapped his legs around Alfred's waist, drawing him closer.

"I—" Alfred whispered over Arthur's kiss-moistened lips, breath hot, "Do you—Is this—"

"Yes," Arthur hissed, reaching for Alfred as he pulled away and pulled off his own shirt, "God—_Yes_," He repeated as Alfred nodded hastily and unbuttoned his trousers, clumsily so. Arthur moved up to his knees, pushing his own trousers off, too.

Alfred grinned, wolf-like, and Arthur thumbed through Alfred's hair, kissing him once more. He felt blinded. It was rushed, it was painful— The way Alfred gripped his hips with such a burning hunger he was sure that there would be bruises there by tomorrow, the way Arthur moaned low in his throat when Alfred slid his lips over the corner of Arthur's mouth and bit his lower lip before trailing down at kissing at the base of his throat. His body quivered as Alfred pushed towards him, shuddering, and his eyes fluttered closed as he felt Alfred's erect cock line up against his one.

"Hey," Alfred spoke, whispered and shaking, "Can you—Can you open your eyes?"

Arthur flickered them open once more.

"Thanks," Alfred said, "They're such a pretty green."

"Are they?" Arthur gasped and arched up towards Alfred.

"Yeah," He moaned, and his mouth, closed as he groaned, then opened to gasp, then closed once more, gritting his teeth. His tongue darted out occasionally to wet his lips—To taste the remaining taste of Arthur on his lips as Arthur swallowed thickly below him.

It was sentimental, Arthur thought as he stared up into Alfred's eyes. His heart shuddered as Alfred shifted, and reached one of his hands over beside Arthur's body to clasp around Arthur's own, warm and secure, the other still gripping his hip bone. Arthur heard nothing over the sound of flesh and his panting, Alfred's groans and heaving, gasping breaths. His eyes observed Alfred's own, down to his lips, moving yet no words spilling from them. Alfred leaned down, resting his forehead against Arthur's, and Arthur arched slightly as Alfred pushed against him. Alfred's mouth relaxed, jaw slack, and he groaned once more, fighting the surge of pleasure that coursed through him as Arthur breathed nonsense words to him.

Arthur pulled his hand away from the back of Alfred's head, tangled in his hair, and dragged his fingers over the underside of Alfred's cock, watching the man shudder with thrill, as he wrapped his hand around the cock and held it tightly, he fluttered his eyes up to meet Alfred's own. Alfred swore, softly, and fumbled, desperately fisting his hand around Arthur's cock. As he pumped, Arthur threw his head back and arched his back, chest flush to Alfred's, tightening the hold that Alfred still had on Arthur's hand beside his body on the sofa.

Alfred brushed his lips against Arthur's, breath shaking in an impossible echo of Arthur's own as he watched him, hand shaking as he pulled on the cock. It was slow, almost too slow—Arthur hissed lowly in his throat, teeth clenching.

Alfred shuddered, and met Arthur's hand over their cocks, stroking Arthur faster. Arthur shifted his hips to meet Alfred's strokes, and he gripped harder, breath heavy and ragged. Alfred was desperate, and with a shout and a drawn-out version of Arthur's name, he stared deep into Arthur's glazed, deep eyes and went rigid as his cock twitched once. Long strings of pearl-white fluid shot out over their chests and stomachs, moaning Arthur's name as Arthur gasped, too, a line of sweat trickling down his temple and tightening the hold on Alfred's hand as he arched and moaned, lowly, eyelashes fluttering and tipping his head back, his body finishing—The incarnation was complete.

Arthur's chest was heaving, and Alfred let his eyes close, slowly, running his fingers over Arthur's hips and chest—He was beautiful in the way that men seldom are. He was elegant, slim, fluid and with the way there was heat radiating from every inch of his skin, eyes opened and staring up at Alfred, he understood that, despite the haze of lust and content clouding his thoughts, Arthur was truly beautiful.

Alfred trailed his thumbs over Arthur's thighs, and Arthur shivered, tangling his fingers in Alfred's hair once more. His other hand was still securely placed around Alfred's own, pinned to the sofa.

"I think I love you," Alfred muttered in Arthur's ear, his words parched and starving, "You're gorgeous." Arthur remained silent before he smiled and reached towards Alfred, kissing him on his open mouth.

Alfred's touch did not still, running his hand from Arthur's hip up across his torso to his neck and jaw, brushing hair from his face as he slipped his tongue across Arthur's teeth, meeting his own tongue with a silent appreciation and a low moan in his throat. Alfred's fingers touched Arthur gently, as though he were asleep—It felt painful, it was so loving that it burned.

Alfred broke free after a long while, and he let his lips linger to Arthur's as Arthur fluttered his eyes open and tried to formulate words, though failing as he saw the endearing expression of bewilderment on Alfred's face. It was as though there was a faint acknowledgment that Arthur had tumbled into his dreams, into his colossal vital illusion, and it was permanent, now—Arthur could not be able to leave his life after this.

He had left his mark on Alfred.

"I can't—when I try to—" Alfred said.

"I know," Arthur said quietly. He pulled Alfred down on the sofa, and rested his head in the crook of his shoulder. Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur, securely holding him in place, and Arthur traced invisible shaped on Alfred's chest with his forefinger.

"It's alright." He said, "We'll be alright."

Alfred ran his hand up and down Arthur's spine.

He understood.

Arthur stayed.

He understood, too.


	7. Chapter 7

Act VI

September.

_After_

"If it wasn't for the mist we could see the green light," Alfred said on the pier, "That green light burns all night."

Arthur hummed in acknowledgment and rested his head on his shoulder as Alfred stared out to the ocean.

It occurred to Alfred that the colossal significance of the light had vanished forever, compulsory with the ending of summer. There was no longer a great distance between him and the ever-present shimmering beacon that reminded him of the many nights he had spent alone, staring out at it and trying to reach it, to grasp it.

It was cold and windy out now, yet he felt warm.

Arthur was here now— No longer as close to him as a star to the moon.

"All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don't come back." Arthur said, voice hoarse. His eyes shimmered in the dim light, eerily and Alfred felt his chest tighten at the sight of Arthur shifting his gaze to stare up at Alfred, eyes hooded yet glaring with their familiar intensity.

"You said that to me already," Alfred laughed, "Don't you remember— By the pool?"

Arthur frowned. "It seems like so long ago." He said.

"It's been two months since then."

"Has it?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied, "I—I waited, didn't it?"

Arthur remained silent.

"You shouldn't have—" Arthur said, "You're a fool, Alfred, you—"

"I'll always wait for you," Alfred said, "No matter what, Arthur."

Arthur hitched his breath.

"You're lying," Arthur muttered.

"I'm not lying." Alfred said, "I'm not—I don't care about anything other than wanting to make you happy."

Arthur tightened the hold on Alfred's hand, nails digging into the skin. He sniffed. Alfred felt his skin dampened.

"Don't—Don't say anything," Arthur voiced achingly, "You're—"

He trailed off. His throat constricted as his eyes stung and tears ran down his face.

"I'm here," Alfred said, "I'm right here. Do you—We'll—We'll work on it. I—I believe in the person I want to become," Alfred licked his lips, "And I'll get there, eventually. Just—Promise you'll wait for me, too?"

Arthur laughed dryly as Alfred swiped the tears away with the pad of his thumbs, fingers lingering.

"Of course I'll wait for you." He said, and Alfred grinned, brilliantly. Arthur smiled back, too.

"You're drunk." He said after a moment.

"Yeah," Alfred laughed, "So are you. I'm drunk, you're drunk, and you're beautiful, too," He said, "And tomorrow, I'll probably be only a little drunk, but you'll still be beautiful."

Arthur felt his spine burn with heat, licking itself up slowly to his chest and face, pulse fluttering. He wondered whether it was love.

Alfred was silent.

"Alfred," Arthur said quietly as Alfred traced patterns across Arthur's back and shoulders, "What— What will happen after this all ends?"

"What do you mean?"

"After summer ends," Arthur said, "You have to— You have to return to California soon, don't you?"

Alfred blinked once or twice, frowning.

"Don't you?" Arthur repeated.

"Yeah," He replied after a moment, "But— I was— I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know anything," Alfred replied, "My head gets all weird when I'm with you." Arthur watched him, curiously, as he stared up at the stars above in the same manner he had down all those months ago on the pier— As though he wanted to drink the night and drown in it.

"Right," Arthur said quietly.

"See," Alfred continued, "I'm— I'm hoping that it never ends. Summer is over but— I don't— I—" He inhaled a shaky breath, "You could stay. Come to California with me."

Arthur licked his lips and lowered his gaze to stare at the ocean at his feet.

"I— Alfred," He searched for words, eyes firmly closed, "You— I'm not good for you."

"I don't care." He said, with no hint of joking or shame. Arthur turned to face him, slowly, and reached to map out Alfred's face, as though memorising it, with his fingers, gently trailing them across the smooth surface. He had a curious expression on his face as he observed Alfred, his eyelashes fluttering and lungs constrict as Arthur rested his palm on his cheek. Alfred could smell the bitter taste of smoke linger on Arthur's lungs and lips. Arthur's addiction was the rush of nicotine through his veins— Alfred's was undoubtedly Arthur.

"You're so brave," Arthur said, voice so quiet and vulnerable it seemed to burn Alfred.

"Why would I be scared when you're with me?"

Arthur smiled, slowly, and then all at once.

Alfred understood in that moment that Arthur Kirkland would be the death of him— And he'd let him.


End file.
